Dancing with the Autobots
by Kryschenn
Summary: G1. To raise funds while polishing their already positive public image, Jazz and Blaster develop an Autobot-focused reality TV show. The prize for the winners is a golden trophy, which Megatron soon covets as a device vital to his own nefarious purposes.
1. A Premise

**Author's Note: **This piece was written in conjunction with a series of Gen.1-based fanart pictures that I drew for some inexplicable reason. Don't ask what inspired the series to begin with, it's beyond even my skills to explain. However, if you'd like to see the pictures, they're in my deviantART gallery- follow the link in my profile.

Once again, a million thanks to my friend Robert, my primary beta-reader who offered me so much help and advice with certain parts of this story that I should credit him as my co-author. Also, thanks to my co-worker John S. who was willing to beta-read from the perspective of someone who barely knows Transformers at all.

**Disclaimer: **_Transformers, GI Joe_, and _Jem and the Holograms_ are all copyright Hasbro. I am not making any money or gaining any form of compensation from this story beyond the satisfaction of having written it. I do not own ANY of the properties mentioned anywhere in this story. Not even Burgerville, though I do like to have lunch there every now and then.

O.O.O

_**Dancing With The Autobots**_

Chapter 1: A Premise

O.O.O

Twenty years ago, this had all been the barren, volcanic landscape of eastern Oregon's high desert.

Now, where once there had been nothing but miles of reddish sand dotted with dry sagebrush, a sparkling blue lake shimmered beneath the early spring sun, its deep waters nourishing a wide expanse of healthy, green grasses and young, sturdy evergreens that spread out from its calm shores. A towering city, unlike anything seen before on Earth, rose as an otherworldly backdrop to this idyllic scene. The peaceful banks of the reservoir had become the preferred place for many of the locals, whether human or giant alien robot, to relax and unwind after a long duty shift, or to enjoy a few simple hours spent with friends and family.

At the top of a gentle rise that overlooked the lake, beneath a small copse of sturdy young pine trees, two laughing mechs from the nearby city sat in their favorite places on the grassy slope. One was tall, lean and trim, with a youthful charm, clean-cut lines, and a flame-motif paint job that clearly declared his sporty alt-mode. The other was all green, large and bulky along the lines of a robotic Arnold Schwarzenegger, but with a jovial demeanor that seemed a bit at odds with his powerhouse appearance. Between these two mechs sat a third Autobot: small and petite in comparison, decidedly feminine, and very, very pink. As she told the story that had the two mechs roaring with laughter, she relaxed comfortably in the circle of the green mech's large, sturdy arm, even as she seemed to flirt openly with the flame-colored 'Bot.

Neither mech took issue with this. It was a rather odd relationship. Most of the other Autobots hadn't quite figured it out just yet.

"So, I ran to the nearest comm panel and put in an emergency call to Med-bay," the femme was explaining, talking animatedly with her hands almost as much as her voice. "I mean, seriously, Swoop may be smaller than the rest of them, but when a Dinobot grabs _anybody_, you know someone's going to wind up in a world of pain. Then we took off and followed them as fast as we could. Of course, Sideswipe was off like a shot after them before anyone else really even knew what had even happened."

"Well, Sunstreaker IS his brother," the flame-emblazoned 'Bot said thoughtfully, without the slightest hint of the mild irritation that usually crept into an Autobot's voice at the mere mention of the hell-raising Lamborghini twins. This was quite possibly because he was just as adept at raising said hell, so he looked upon the brothers as kindred spirits. "Whatever else people say about those two, they're absolutely devoted to each other."

"I know, Hot Rod," the femme agreed, "and as much as I want to pour a can of purple enamel all over Sunny's head sometimes, I don't want to see anyone actually get hurt, not even him. Swoop was too far ahead of us, so we couldn't stop him, but he just flew straight to the Lair. We knew that because we could hear Sunstreaker screaming the whole way. I managed to get stuck behind Ultra Magnus and I couldn't get around him, but we were able to catch up with Swoop after just a minute anyway. And that's when things _really_ got crazy." Here she paused, covering her mouthplates with a hand servo, clearly fighting back a bad case of the giggles.

"You mean, a giant pterodactyl grabbing Sunstreaker and flying him off, kicking and screaming, to the Dinobot Lair _wasn't_ the crazy part?" asked the grinning green mech in amused disbelief. The question only made the femme shake her head and giggle even harder.

"Worse!" the pink Autobot burst out between choked laughter, waving her free hand in the air. Unfortunately for her audience, she couldn't say anything beyond that.

"Arcee!" Hot Rod practically shouted after a full minute had passed with no sign of the storyteller pulling herself together. "Calm down and spill it before Springer and I turn inside out from all the suspense!"

"He was ... Swoop, he ..." Finally, with a visible effort, Arcee got a grip on herself enough to stop laughing, though her bright blue optics still twinkled with mirth. "Like I said, I got there right behind Ultra Magnus. And pretty much all we could do was stare, because there was Swoop, very determined to stuff Sunstreaker and that new chrome detailing of his into his sparkly junk collection!" The two mechs roared with merriment as the femme made the forceful gesture of the Dinobot trying to shove a wriggling something into a spot where it wasn't supposed to fit in the first place.

"That's our Swoop," Springer laughed heartily. "Easily distracted by bright, shiny objects!"

"I told Sunstreaker that new chrome package was a bad idea," Hot Rod managed around his laughter. "But nnnoo-ooo, he insisted on getting it anyway!"

"That's because _somebody_," Arcee answered, leaning forward to poke Hot Rod squarely in the flame-emblazoned chestplate for emphasis, "has a flashier paint job than he does, and our friendly neighborhood sociopath still hasn't figured out how to deal with that. So, you can guess, Sunstreaker just isn't having any part of this. He's yelling at Swoop all sorts of things that I'm not going to repeat to you guys ..."

"Oh, my virgin audio receptors," Springer interrupted with cheerful sarcasm.

Arcee immediately swatted the green mech's leg and continued her story without missing a beat. "...but every time he tried to climb out of the junk pile, Swoop just shoved him right back in!"

"Poor Sunny, his super-sized ego must have really taken a beating," Hot Rod grinned, this time not sounding the least bit sympathetic. The yellow Lamborghini's overinflated vanity was the stuff of legend amongst the Autobots, and as much as he liked the twins, Hot Rod personally thought that a lesson in how to deal gracefully with a few paint scratches would do Sunstreaker a world of good.

"You'd better believe it," Arcee agreed. "I mean, just picture it. There's sparkly garbage flying everywhere, poor Swoop isn't quite comprehending why his new trinket is fighting back and not cooperating, Sunstreaker's swearing in languages I didn't know he ever bothered to learn, and Sideswipe ... oh, you should have seen Sides! He's trying to help his brother, and he's swearing at least as much as Sunny is, but Sludge had just picked him right up and was holding him off the ground and shaking him, and he was saying ..." here Arcee dropped her light voice as much as possible into a thick, dim rumble to mimic the Dinobot in question, "'You no be mean! You leave him Swoop alone! You no take him Swoop's shiny new toy away!' I'm sorry you guys missed all this, but there wasn't any time to call you," she added in her normal voice. "I swear, I was about ready to just drop to the ground and laugh my aft off as it was, but right then, Sunny got away."

"How'd he manage that?" Hot Rod asked. Once the Dinobots decided they wanted something, it was next to impossible to get them to let go. The manufactured "cavern" that comprised the Dinobot's Lair was full of all sorts of items, from trash to treasures, that the legitimate owners were not about to retrieve because no one felt the ensuing fight would be worth it.

"Rocket pack," Arcee explained. "Good thing he was wearing it. He managed to get out of the junk pile long enough to blast straight out Swoop's flight hole in the ceiling, cussing the whole way. Of course, Swoop let out a screech and was right on his tail, and as soon as Sideswipe saw all this, he blasted off with his own rocket pack, and that's the last we saw of any of them. And so there we were, Sides chasing Swoop chasing Sunny, with Sludge standing there all covered in rocket soot, with that really lost expression he gets when he can't quite figure out what just happened, and Grimlock gets this very confused look on his face and asks Kup ..." in a slightly different throaty growl, she intoned, "'Why him Swoop's sparkly toy fly away?'"

The two mechs howled again. The mental picture their favorite femme was painting for them was vivid and priceless beyond all expression. "And you won't believe what happened then!" she added.

"It got worse?" Springer asked hopefully.

"Ultra Magnus ... started laughing," Arcee answered in a tone of dramatic awe.

"_Magnus_?" Hot Rod asked in pure disbelief.

"Started _laughing_?" Springer finished the question.

"I know," Arcee agreed, as if she almost didn't believe it herself, despite personally witnessing the monumental event. "Cybertron's most famous straight mech. It was _that_ funny. Well, he wasn't laughing like you guys do. He was trying to hold it in and pretend this is a very serious situation, and that just made it worse. He's fighting it as hard as he can, so he's got this crazy expression on his face, and he's just twitching all over, and maybe a couple, you know, half-muffled snickers sort of sneak out. We're all standing there staring like a bunch of idiots because none of us had any idea how to handle this one. I mean, Ultra Magnus. Laughing. And that's when Ratchet comes running in with a full med-kit."

"Oh, that's right, you'd called Medical," Springer remembered with an anticipatory grin. The story was just getting better and better, and it was obvious the cheerful mech loved every syllable of how Arcee was telling it. (Everyone knew that he would have loved it just as much if she had been sitting there reading a human phone book out loud, just so long as she was leaning against him like that, but that was entirely beside the point.)

"Right, but Ratchet didn't know what was going on other than there was an emergency in the Lair," Arcee admitted. "He got there too late to see the whole Swoop/Sunstreaker thing, so when he runs in, the first thing he sees Ultra Magnus twitching like that. Before anyone can say a word, he shouts, 'Everyone stand back! Magnus is having a seizure!'"

Two sets of mandible gears whined in protest as the shocked mechs' jaws dropped farther than they should have. "A seizure?" Hot Rod repeated faintly.

"I swear to you, that's exactly what he said!"Arcee nodded. "He never in a million vorns would have guessed that Magnus was _laughing_! And Ratchet can move when he thinks there's a medical emergency. We couldn't have stopped him if we tried. He pulls out an external cortico-neuro stimulator and sets the charge high enough to reset the neural net of someone the size of Ultra Magnus. You know what that means."

"A big slagging shock," Springer translated.

Arcee lightly swatted Springer's thigh again, this time to reprimand his crude language. "Magnus went from trying not to laugh to letting out this bellow that I thought was going to knock the roof down. I think Ratchet was more surprised than anyone, but Grimlock just looked completely ecstatic, and actually started bouncing around saying, 'Good one! Good one! You Magnus teach Dinobots how to roar like that!' Then _all_ the Dinobots started roaring and stomping, so I couldn't hear what Ratchet said, but then I definitely could hear Magnus shouting back at him, 'WHO TOLD YOU THERE WAS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY IN THE DINOBOT LAIR?!'"

Hot Rod and Springer looked at each other in alarm. "Uh, oh," they both said at the same time.

"That's pretty much what I thought," Arcee agreed. "Then Kup looked at me and said very quietly, 'You know, it's been said that discretion is the better part of valor.' Well, he didn't have to tell me twice. I transformed and discretely got the slag out of there."

Turnabout being fair play, Springer promptly swatted Arcee's aft for her own use of colorful language. She immediately made a face at him, but he just grinned right back in that disarming manner of his that made it impossible to stay mad at him.

"So that's why you went tearing through the Command Center at 125 miles an hour, yelling something about saving your neck servos," Hot Rod reasoned. That unexpected sight had been what brought the three of them out here to the reservoir in the first place: the terrified Arcee screaming and seemingly driving for her life, and the very alarmed Springer and Hot Rod tearing after her to make sure she was all right and to help her if she needed it.

"148 miles an hour, actually," Arcee smiled at Hot Rod, "but who's counting?"

"Well, either way, I think even Blurr was impressed," Hot Rod teased, then easily dodged the pine cone that the femme threw at his head.

Once Arcee had gotten to what she deemed the safe distance of the lake, she'd calmed down a bit, especially when her two favorite mechs came running heroically to her side. Springer had arrived here mere seconds after Arcee. He'd known right where she was going to go, where she always went when she was upset, so by transforming into flight mode, he avoided being slowed down by the rocky, winding roads altogether. Hot Rod, not having the airborne alt-mode options of his Triple-Changing best friend, pushed his sporty tires to the limit and made it less than thirty seconds later. With their safe and supportive presences on the scene, Arcee finally settled down and the story came out.

Though maybe, just _maybe_, she'd played up her fright a bit for the benefit of her rescuers. Everyone knew that Ultra Magnus was a towering package of bluster who wouldn't actually hurt anyone under his command, and the truth was, Arcee wasn't afraid of him at all. What she admitted she really was afraid of was being embarrassed in front of her friends. And of getting stuck with a triple shift of monitor duty. And of being thrown in the brig. And of being assigned to garbage detail for a month. And having Ratchet remember he was mad at her for instigating a false alarm the next time she needed a checkup. And whatever other humiliating punishment she could imagine if Ultra Magnus ever found out who called in the Doctor and his overcharged neuro-stimulator. Especially since she hadn't meant for any of it to happen in the first place.

In other words, she just hated the thought of getting in trouble. That was Hot Rod's area of expertise.

"Well, I can see why you ran," Springer agreed, "but really, Cee, I'm betting you're fine. Magnus probably won't let anybody leave until he questions absolutely everyone in the Lair, but you know Kup completely adores you and I can guarantee you that his 'discretion' comment means he's going to conveniently forget all the details, what with that amazingly spotty selective memory of his."

Hot Rod gave an audible snort at this. Kup _never_ forgot the details. And, as the young mech had learned through painful firsthand experience, the old warhorse would happily spend hours regaling his (very bored) listeners with said details.

"I don't think Ratchet's going to rat on you, either," Springer continued calmly, "because even Optimus can't get a peep out of our Chief Medical Officer if he thinks he's protecting the confidentiality of his patients. Magnus can pry all he wants, but I'm going to bet your secret is safe."

"But what if Ratchet thinks this was all a big prank?" Arcee asked, and this time her smile seemed a bit nervous. "He doesn't like troublemakers any more than Magnus does. If he thinks I did this to him on purpose, he'd probably see it as his duty to report everything."

"Well, then we'll make sure your epitaph says, 'I Regret Nothing,' won't we, Rod?" Springer offered reasonably.

There was a metallic _clank_ as Arcee immediately gave him yet another harmless swat, but Hot Rod just laughed, so she leaned forward and swatted him, too. "You're not helping," the irritated femme informed them both.

"I know, I know," Springer agreed, sounding rather proud of that fact. "Okay, look at it this way. If Ratchet was going to spill it, he would have done it right away. Magnus knows you come out here when you need to calm down or when you want to get away from the city for a little while, right?"

"Ri-ight," Arcee agreed slowly, unsure of where Springer was going with this.

"Well, if he was as mad as you think he is, and if he knew you were the one who called Medical, he would have come storming out here shouting, 'There you are!' by now, right? But he hasn't, so he's probably not looking for you at all. Take that to mean Ratchet didn't tell him anything."

Looking skeptical, Arcee glanced at Hot Rod for confirmation. The sporty mech just shrugged, unwilling to commit to anything. He knew there was something wrong with Springer's logic, but he couldn't quite put a finger servo on it.

"I... suppose," Arcee agreed hesitantly, getting no help from Hot Rod. "I'm pretty sure no one else heard me call Medical, and I know I can trust you guys completely, so I-"

"There you are!" interrupted a new voice.

There was a high-pitched shriek of "OhholyPrimusI'mdead!" corresponding with a pink streak vacating the area so fast that it left both mechs thinking, once again, that even Blurr would have been impressed.

"Uh, now what was that all about?" the new voice continued uncertainly, as a stylish white racing Porsche pulled into the meadow. A red and yellow boom box popped out of the front seat, and both transformed into equally stylish mechs.

"Oh, nothing, Jazz," Hot Rod said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She just thought you were Ultra Magnus. Hey, Blaster."

"Oookaaayyy," Jazz said, looking down at himself dubiously. On a good day, if Jazz stretched to his full height while standing on a box, he might, if he was lucky, come to somewhere in the vicinity of Ultra Magnus's armpit. His gravelly yet cheerful tenor didn't sound the least bit like Magnus's rich, resonant baritone, and Jazz, at least, knew how to rock a paint job. All that blue, white, and red armor made Ultra Magnus look like the flag of at least half a dozen different sovereign nations. Furthermore, Ultra Magnus had the alt-mode of an oversized automotive transport rig. Jazz, on the other hand, had _style_.

In other words, Optimus Prime's First Lieutenant had absolutely no idea how anyone could possibly mistake him for the City Commander.

"Well, uh, is she coming back?" Blaster asked, having already lost track of the retreating femme. This was one of the very rare times in which he and Jazz were equally at a loss. As they'd both been up to their optics in a very special project, neither of them had gotten word of the Dinobot Lair incident just yet. They simply had no idea what had gotten into the normally level-headed Arcee all of the sudden.

"Are you kidding?" Springer asked lightly, turning back to the newcomers after watching Arcee speeding off just long enough to make sure she wasn't going to accidentally hurt herself. "The rate she took off at, she's probably in Portland by now!"

Hot Rod shook his head. "Seattle, at least," he countered with a grin.

"Well, that's too bad," Jazz said, shrugging off his consternation and getting down to the business at hand. "Me an' Blaster got somethin' special in the works, an' we really wanted to talk to her about it."

"Anything we can help with?" Springer immediately asked. This earned him a dirty look from Hot Rod, who famously didn't like getting 'volunteered' for extra work unless he knew exactly what he was getting into.

"Well, we really want to get the gals on board," Jazz explained. He was probably one of the few Autobots who had adopted that distinctly human word when referring to their own females. "But you guys are probably gonna want to hear this one out 'cause I know you're gonna get involved anyway."

"Do tell," Springer grinned as Jazz and Blaster found seats on the grass. Even Hot Rod was leaning forward with interest, in spite of himself.

"Well, y'know how the Chief always wants us to put our best foot servos forward when it comes to public relations," Jazz began.

"Sure, all in all we've had a pretty positive relationship with the humans so far," Springer agreed, sounding a little more serious than was usual for him. "But these things can be pretty fragile. They've turned on us before."

"Tell me about it, man," Jazz nodded reflectively. "'Decepticon Day' had to be the stupidest thing them humans ever did. Anyway, me an' Blaster here, we were sittin' around in the rec room watchin' TV when we came up with a brilliant idea for polishin' the ol' image. Are you ready for this? We're gonna get in contact with a network and round up some sponsors, an' see if we can do_ a reality show_!"

Hot Rod and Springer looked at each other warily, which was simply not the excited reaction that Jazz had been hoping for. "A ... reality show?" Hot Rod asked carefully. "Like ... _Big Brother_ or something? Camera crews are going to follow us around twenty-four/seven and barge in on us when we're recharging and stuff?"

"No way," Blaster interrupted, clearly unfazed by Hot Rod's initial reluctance. He, at least, sounded as excited about the idea as Jazz. "This won't be some corny, _Big Autobots, Little World_ scrap. Besides, that many cameras would make Red Alert glitch so hard, he'd be in Med-bay for a week. We were thinking about something flashier, and making it a competition, so the viewers can root for their favorites and see us performing at our best, but with lots of backstage drama and fancy numbers and heartbreaking eliminations and a great big shiny trophy for the winners!" His fancy phrases and emphatic gestures were getting more and more exaggerated by the second. "Can't you just see it?"

Springer suddenly had a very good idea what show these two had been watching when they came up with their plan. He almost laughed, but visibly held it in, and with far more grace than Ultra Magnus. At least no misinformed Medics came running up to shock his neural net.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Blaster continued in his best announcer's voice, pretending to hold an invisible microphone. "Let's have a round of applause for the first contestants in ... _Dancing With The Autobots_!"

This time, Springer did laugh. In fact, he laughed hard enough to make himself flop onto his back from the sheer mirth. On the other hand, Hot Rod gaped like a fish for a moment, then apparently decided he couldn't possibly take any of this seriously, and fell over laughing, too.

"What?" Jazz asked a little defensively. "It's a win-win all the way! We get a boost in popularity, we get to have a little fun an' show off, we make some of our suppliers happy by lettin' them sponsor the show, plus we put the profits towards buildin' that airfield that Magnus wants behind Metroplex, which will make plenty of jobs for a lot of humans, so everyone's happy!"

"And all this by teaching ourselves how to dance?" a clearly disbelieving Hot Rod choked out between laughs.

"We're planning on hiring, you know, professional instructors," Blaster answered reasonably. "It's a nice little way to show off us Autobots and humans working together, and all. Besides, how hard can it be, really?"

"And Prime is okay with this idea?" Springer asked, mostly pulling himself together even though he wasn't quite able to smother his grin.

"Prime's totally down with it!" Jazz agreed enthusiastically. "He thinks it's great! He even wants to compete!"

This brought an abrupt moment of complete and stunned silence, a major accomplishment considering the four usually talkative mechs involved. Even the birds in the trees seemed to stop chirping in suspense as Hot Rod and Springer just stared in disbelief.

"Optimus Prime," the Triple-Changer finally asked slowly, as if he couldn't possibly believe he'd heard correctly, "wants to _dance_?"

Casting conspiratorial glances at each other, Blaster and Jazz just grinned and shrugged. "Well," Jazz finally drawled, "actually, _Elita_ wants to dance. Y'know how it is."

"Ohhh," Springer agreed sagely. "That makes a whole lot more sense."

Nodding in vigorous assent, Hot Rod held up his left fist and cheerfully explained as if he were narrating a puppet show, "This is Elita One. This is Elita One's little finger," he added, sticking out the digit in question. "And this is Optimus Prime," he finished, using his right hand to pantomime wrapping something around his pinky servo. "She is the keeper of a fantastic power that Megatron only wishes he could wield."

"Exactly right, my man," Blaster acquiesced nonchalantly. "I'm sure you guys would know all about that."

A mechanical frown crossed Hot Rod's faceplate. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Again, Jazz and Blaster glanced at each other and grinned. Old friends that they were, each seemed to know exactly what the other was thinking. Jazz's left fist suddenly popped up into the air. "See, it's like this. This is Arcee," he informed Hot Rod. "This is Arcee's li'l finger."

"And this here's Arcee's little finger on her other hand," Blaster continued, holding up his right fist accordingly. Wrapping something imaginary around his extended pinky, he added, "And this is Hot Rod..."

"...An' this is Springer," Jazz finished, mirroring the gesture.

Hot Rod looked a little miffed that his joke had been turned back on him, especially with such astute accuracy, but Springer laughed just as loudly as the others. "Trust me, guys, there are far worse places to be," the green mech said with honest good humor.

"Which," Jazz surmised, trying to bring the conversation back to the reason they'd come out here in the first place, "I'm gonna hope is your way of sayin' that if we ever manage to catch up to the Pink Lady, wherever she went, an' she says she'll dance, then you'll be her partner?"

"It's like you said," Springer just smiled. Holding up his little finger, he symbolically wrapped himself around it. "If she's in, I'm in."

"Wait, hang on," Hot Rod finally asked. He didn't seem all that put out by the automatic assumption that Springer was the one who would dance with Arcee. Jazz, one of the few Autobots who actually _had_ figured out this odd relationship, was not the least bit surprised by that. "Is it going to be just mechs dancing with femmes? Because we've only got, what, five femmes on Earth right now? Lancer and Greenlight are stationed on Moon Base Two at the moment, and I don't think anyone can convince those two to shirk their duty for a dance show. So even if the rest of the ladies agree to it, you're not going to have enough contestants to really make a good competition."

Jazz elected not to point out that Hot Rod was clearly warming up to the idea of his reality show, even if the younger mech had been laughing at it just minutes before. "A lot of them talent shows feature solos an' all-male dance squads, so we're gonna allow 'em, too," the Specialist explained, showing that he and Blaster had already put a great deal of thought into this crazy plan. "That'll open the game up to everyone. If we have the time in between tryin' to get this show on the road, me an' Blaster are even gonna put together a team of our own. But we really want to showcase the gals. Y'know how humans are with their TV shows. Purty ladies mean higher ratings."

"And just how many of the pretty ladies have signed up so far?" Springer asked, failing to disguise that he was clearly wondering if he and Optimus were the first to get suckered in to this crazy scheme or not.

"Well, Firestar and Inferno are all hot for the idea," Blaster answered, drawing a few pained groans with his bad pun. "And Chromia called us a bunch of crazy slaggers, so you know she's on board too."

"It's true!" Jazz agreed enthusiastically. "The more she insults ya, the more she likes ya. An' since she's all for the idea, that means Ironhide's signed up too, whether he knows it yet or not. So that just leaves Moonracer, can't forget her, even if the poor kid is a hazard to herself an' everyone around her. So if you guys can track down Arcee..."

"That's assuming she didn't achieve escape velocity and isn't somewhere orbiting Saturn right now," Hot Rod interrupted.

"Uh, yeah, that was a pretty fast exit she pulled, wasn't it?" Jazz agreed slowly, though he still had no idea why his sudden appearance had caused it. The Specialist knew he was fairly well-liked, so usually everyone was a lot happier to see him than that. "But really, d'ya know where she went?"

"Honestly?" Springer said, which, knowing the Triple-Changer's wry sense of humor, was not necessarily to be taken as an indication that he was being serious at all. "I saw her dive in the lake."

"Ooooh," Hot Rod crowed approvingly. "Magnus will never think to look for her _there_!"

Shaking his head, Jazz gingerly pinched the bridge of his olfactory housing. If he were human, he was sure a whanging headache would be forming behind his optics right about now. "Oh, man. Can I ask what's goin' on here?"

"No," Springer said with finality. "You really can't."

Jazz let out a perfect imitation of a long-suffering sigh, a mannerism he'd picked up from humans despite the fact that Autobots did not actually draw breath. Springer technically held the same rank as Jazz, even though their fields of command were vastly different, so the First Lieutenant knew he couldn't pull rank to force an answer out of the commander of the Wreckers. But Jazz didn't mind. He'd already gotten the distinct impression there was a very wacky story behind Arcee's equally wacky behavior, and whatever it was, Ultra Magnus had something to do with it. That meant gossip. Jazz was, unofficially, The Keeper Of The Gossip, so he knew that he'd find out, and sooner rather than later. So, filing the thought away for future reference, he again brought the topic around to his new pet project. "Anyway," he said, standing up and brushing away a few stray pine needles, "we need a few weeks to sign up some sponsors an' get a network an' a venue an' the whole shebang. We figure we'll start filmin' in the beginnin' of August, so that oughta give everyone plenty of time to start practicin'. Cool?"

"Works for me," Springer agreed casually. "I'm sure it will work for Arcee once we get all the water out of her servos."

"Cool!" Jazz said again, honestly pleased that his plan was one step closer to fruition. "C'mon, Blaster my man, let's go make some calls. See you at rehearsal, Hot Rod!" he called out as he transformed, speeding away with the colorful boom box blasting MeatLoaf's _Bat Out Of Hell_ from his front seat.

Hot Rod and Springer sat on the grass for a few moments longer, staring at each other in amused disbelief before bursting out laughing again. Leave it to Jazz to come up with such a crazy, entertaining, so very _human_ idea ... an idea, they eventually realized, that had its merits despite its endearing oddness. Or, perhaps, _because_ of it.

"Hey!" Hot Rod suddenly exclaimed, sobering abruptly and looking at Springer with real alarm in his optics. "Did I just get recruited onto Jazz's dance squad?"

O.O.O

Though The Keeper Of The Gossip managed to glean all the juicy details in less than fifteen minutes, in the end, Ultra Magnus never did find out who put in that call to Medical.

Which was too bad, really. Even though the misunderstanding had been a bit shocking for him, the City Commander had ultimately wanted to commend whoever it was for thinking quickly and clearly enough to alert Medical to a potentially hazardous situation before anyone had the chance to be seriously injured.

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 2 ..._


	2. A Network

_**Dancing With The Autobots**_

Chapter 2: A Network

O.O.O

Word of Jazz's crazy little notion got around weeks before it ever had the chance to become an officially sanctioned project. A formal agreement had yet to be made with a network or a sponsor, but that hardly seemed to matter. A highly contagious form of _Saturday Night Fever_ went dancing through the _Ark_ and Autobot City on a Monday through Sunday basis. At that very moment, the contagion was lilting its way to the Command Center of the city.

"This is an excellent proposal, Prowl," Optimus complimented his main Strategist as he scanned the words scrolling on the data pad in his hand. "Have you gotten Ultra Magnus's input on the possibility of offering part of our facilities as a liaison office to Earth Defen-"

"Annnd, one two three, one two three, one two three!"

Admirably, or so Prowl thought, Optimus Prime managed not to cringe visibly as the reinforced command doors slid open to admit a familiar figure making entirely unfamiliar moves. Elita One glided into the room on the tips of her tarsal plates, stepping and spinning gracefully in time to the three-part rhythm she was counting out. Her odd, sweeping gait carried her in looping waves across the Command Center.

Prowl took just a moment to feel sorry for his commanding officer. Somehow, Jazz and Elita had manipulated things so that Optimus, despite any protests that he might make, would have to mimic those same, odd steps that she was dancing. On live television. In front of a worldwide audience. The Strategist could think of few things that he found more embarrassing.

But it wasn't Prowl that was going to be up there humiliating himself in front of the cameras. Optimus was a mature mech, and, oh, by the way, he was the Prime. If anyone should be able to get himself out of such an embarrassing situation, it was he. The fact that he hadn't acted to extricate himself so far was beyond Prowl's sphere of authority, so the matter being out of his hand servos, the Strategist decided to absolve himself from any worry about it.

"One two three, one two three, annnd, good morning, Prowl," Elita greeted Optimus's advisor as she twirled to a stop before the two of them.

"Elita," Prowl nodded in return.

"And good morning to you, Optimus, even though I've already said it to you three times today," she continued. "Now then, what have we on the docket today?" Down from her toe plates and now down to business, she accepted the data pad that her sparkmate offered her, taking a moment to read through Prowl's proposal intently. After a thoughtful pause, she handed the pad back to Optimus. "It would appear to be an excellent plan, so long as the humans are in agreement," she stated simply.

Prowl refused to let it stir his ego too much, but he could not deny how good it felt to know that neither Optimus nor Elita had found fault in this, the first draft of his proposal. Usually, the revisions were extensive. "Thank you," he said evenly. "As far as other items on the docket, Elita, has everyone on your team undergone weapons testing for the quarter?"

"Everyone except Moonracer," the femmes' Commander said after a moment's recollection. "She still considers herself the 'best shot in the universe,' and whether she's joking or not, she doesn't always understand how important a proficiency test is to prove it. I'll explain it to her."

Prowl tried not to comment that he didn't care whether Moonracer 'understood' or not. Regulations were regulations, and this particular regulation stated that all Autobots, whether warriors or support personnel, were to go through weapons proficiency testing every quarter. The problem was, after living, fighting, and surviving underground together for thousands of vorns, the femmes' team had become more of a close-knit family in which Elita One 'explained' things to her charges rather than issued orders like a commanding officer should. As far as the Police 'Bot was concerned, Elita's casual way of doing things was a huge burr in the shoulder of his otherwise organized life.

Still, Prowl couldn't deny that her small group was highly trained and efficient, so the Strategist was smart enough not to call her to task over it; certainly not if the end result of Elita's 'explanation' was that Moonracer would just take the slagging proficiency test. On the other hand, he was more than ready to be done with the reports, and was willing to stoop pretty low to make sure it happened by the end of the day. "If that's the case," the Strategist said neutrally, consulting yet another of his endless supply of data pads, "you might also want to explain to the 'best shot in the universe' that Arcee outshot her top score by two points last week."

Under normal circumstances, Elita One was just as good at maintaining a calm appearance as Prime or Prowl was, but her momentary expression of surprise was almost comical. "Really?" she asked with quickly forced neutrality, wavering between surprise on Moonracer's behalf, and pride in Arcee's accomplishment. Arcee was the Autobots' only female who had not been a member of Elita's underground resistence team, but the femmes had rapidly cured that by adopting her into their group within the first five minutes of meeting her. This, of course, added a new dimension to the friendly rivalry that sometimes manifested itself between the good-natured females. "Well, then, I certainly shall inform her - _stop that!_"

"What?" Optimus quickly looked up from readout he'd been studying, and bravely faced down the glare his sparkmate was shooting in his direction. "Stop what, exactly?"

"_Stop grinning at me like that!_" Elita demanded, fists firmly planted on her hips.

Neither confirming nor denying anything, Optimus simply reached up and lightly tapped one finger servo against the solid mask protecting the lower half of his face. "I'm not entirely certain how you can tell," he said innocently.

"Honestly, Optimus," she answered with a fond shake of her head, "as many vorns as we've been together, how in the name of Vector Sigma do you think I _can't?_"

"I work hard to maintain my simple delusions, my love. That's all there is to it," Optimus answered affectionately.

Prowl heavily considered crawling under the floor and slinking silently out of the room if this embarrassing conversation threatened to get any worse. He cast a glance down at one of the thermal tiles, wondering how hard it would be to pry a corner up with his bare hands.

"Now then," Optimus continued in a businesslike tone, to Prowl's infinite relief. "Regarding your question as to what else is on the schedule for today." Thumbing through a few screens on the data pad he held, he read the items aloud as they scrolled by. "Let me see. Calibration of the perimeter defense systems ... We're expecting the shipment of beryllium steel from Symultech Industries today ... Rewiring of the communications systems on level three ... Hound and Trailbreaker are switching quarters - now how did _that_ item get on _my_ docket? Hm."

Prowl tried to explain that Ultra Magnus had approved the move and they both believed in keeping their leader informed of these personnel details, but before he could say a word, Prime just shrugged it off and kept going. "Battle stations readiness drill at 1500 hours - that's supposed to come as a surprise, so tell no one. And one other thing," he added, setting the data pad next to one of Teletraan II's work stations. "Jazz called from New York."

Elita's optics lit up briefly. "Oh?" she asked, feigning casual interest.

"Skyfire left to pick them up an hour ago," Optimus explained. "Jazz and his entourage report success and will be returning with two contracts in hand."

Gone was the calm, businesslike demeanor, as Elita clapped her hands together in bubbling excitement. "It's really happening, then?" she grinned. "We really are going to produce_ Dancing with the Autobots_?"

Prowl groaned inwardly. Even the name was embarrassing.

"Jazz wasn't just coming up with his usual crazy ideas because he was bored," Optimus Prime answered. "They've already signed a distributor and partnered with a production company."

Prowl said nothing, but he still couldn't understand why Prime hadn't put a stop to this ridiculousness weeks ago, when Jazz first suggested it.

"And we shall dance all night!" Elita exclaimed, leaping as gracefully as a human ballerina towards her sparkmate. As Elita One had been all for the concept of this silly dance show from the moment Jazz brought it up, her enthusiasm now did not surprise Prowl. What did catch the Strategist off-guard was how Optimus caught her easily, spun her around once, and then, taking one of her hands with his and putting his other hand on her waist, began counting a beat out loud along with her. "Annnd, one two three, one two three, one two three!" they laughed, moving together in what was an admirable attempt at a simple, Earth-style waltz.

Prowl just stared. His jaw dropped. And then he stared some more. He simply could not come to terms with the sight of Optimus Prime gliding around the Command Center to a ridiculous beat, stepping on his sparkmate's tarsal plates just as often as she was stepping on his, and nodding acknowledgment to the grinning Autobots who turned from their workstations to cheer and applaud.

More than anything else, though, what Prowl absolutely could not come to terms with was the fact that his commanding officer was not the least bit embarrassed by the spectacle he was making of himself now, and, by theoretical extension, the spectacle he would probably make of himself on national television. In fact, the Strategist realized with a sinking sense of horror and a tingle in his neural net that forewarned of a minor logic glitch, Optimus Prime was _enjoying_ it.

"That's just ... not right," Prowl said feebly, even though no one listened to him.

O.O.O

Skyfire flew as calmly and sedately as he could manage, which meant that he made the round trip from Eastern Oregon's high desert to New York and back in just over three hours. Much to Jazz's relief after yesterday's embarrassing debacle with the Federal Aviation Administration, Skyfire had even remembered to file a flight plan so the humans at LaGuardia Airport wouldn't be quite so surprised by his unexpected arrival this time. Jazz wasn't sure who in the Autobot ranks had gotten Skyfire's fines from that incident waived, or how they'd done it, but a lesson had definitely been learned, and it wasn't likely to happen again.

They didn't need a flight plan to land back at the Autobot base, though, and in a relatively short time, an ecstatically bouncing Jazz led two other mechs as they disembarked from the oversized jet. Skyfire transformed and followed them into the city, a slight smirk on his otherwise firmly sealed lip plates. Jazz had spilled all the details of the contracts during the quick flight home, because the Specialist just couldn't help himself in excitement, but then he had adamantly sworn Skyfire to secrecy until the details of the contract were heard and ultimately approved by Optimus Prime.

"Success! We have success!" Jazz exclaimed as he bounded into the Command Center, proudly brandishing two paper printouts as if they were his medals from the Galactic Olympics. Nearly everyone in the room jumped at least half a meter at the suddenness of his flamboyant entrance.

Right behind him, and only slightly more sedate, was Blaster, and following him at a much more reasonable pace came Smokescreen and finally Skyfire

"So we've been told," Optimus Prime answered coolly, one of many who had reflexively gone for his weapon when Jazz burst into the room so loudly. Now that the others realized the explosion of chaos was just the Specialist being his usual exuberant self, those who were excited about _Dancing with the Autobots _stopped what they were doing and crowded around the First Lieutenant, eager to hear news of the project's status.

"We got us a distributor!" Jazz crowed, to a response of smiles and scattered exclamations of excitement from his fellow Autobots. "We got us a production partner! An' we got us a honey of a deal, too! That's because Smokescreen here is DA MAN!" Throwing his arm around the blue and red mech's shoulder struts and pointing at Smokescreen repeatedly and triumphantly, he repeated, "I say it again, folks! When it comes to negotiatin', this here's DA MAN!"

Smokescreen just grinned. Jazz hadn't been able to stop singing his praises since they'd left the media conglomerate's headquarters with the signed contract.

"You renegotiated the contract?" Optimus asked carefully. He was very well aware of Smokescreen's propensity for fast talking; it didn't take a genius to see that he was afraid of the direction things might have gone. "I thought the details were already solidified and your trip to New York was just for signing purposes."

"They were, it was, an' yeah, I thought so, too," Jazz agreed, then somehow gave the impression of frowning despite the visor that covered the upper third of his face. "Extensive Enterprises def'nitely gave us the sweetest deal from the get-go, but it was kinda weird. Halfway through, it felt like they were tryin' to give us the ol' switcheroo or somethin'. Didn't help that they had identical twins doin' the talkin' from the beginnin'. I kinda felt like maybe they were tryin' to keep us a li'l off-balance or whatever."

"Identical twins?" someone in the collected knot of Autobots asked. Jazz thought it sounded like Skids. "Really?

"Yeah, man," Jazz answered, and finally, he laughed again. Humans hadn't figured out yet how different even 'identical' twins appeared to an Autobot's highly sensitive optic sensors, even if one of the two hadn't had that obvious scar on his faceplate. "Well, more like mirror image twins, but yeah. Dunno what they were tryin' to pull, but I figured, hey, two could play at that game. That's why I brought Smokescreen with us. They started to get a little ruthless, and do things like dictate to us where and when we were allowed to stage our performance, so I let him take over and do what he does best. Poor guys, they tried like the devil, but they didn't know what hit 'em. He charmed 'em, dazzled 'em, wowed 'em, talked circles around 'em, outmaneuvered 'em, an' five minutes later, practically had 'em willin' to pay _us_ for the privilege of hostin' our show!"

"I think you're exaggerating a bit," Smokescreen said then, with humility that was only about sixty percent genuine.

"Okay, then, seven an' a half minutes," Jazz shrugged. "A breem, tops." Smokescreen just grinned wider.

"You did, at least, leave the company with ownership of its own building?" Optimus asked. With Smokescreen's reputation for wheeling and dealing, their leader was probably only half-joking.

"Honestly, it wasn't in a great location," Smokescreen answered with a perfectly deadpan expression. "I didn't think we could use it."

"Tell ya what. Smokey, my man," Jazz said with a sweeping gesture towards his new favorite negotiator, "Why don't you just go on ahead and lay it out for the Boss?"

"Well, sir," Smokescreen said, taking the first of the contracts from Jazz's hand and spreading it out on the nearest flat surface for Optimus Prime's perusal, as the avidly interested Autobots pressed closer, "it's like this."

O.O.O

In a currently undisclosed location, a man whose head was entirely encased in a disturbing, steel mask entered the office of the operation's supreme commander. His intelligent eyes, the only feature of his face that could even remotely be seen, were shrewdly scanning a sheaf of paper that lay in an open manila folder in his hands.

Behind the carved desk that was large enough to merit its own area code, one of the few men in the world who wore an even _more_ disturbing mask looked up sharply at his entrance. The curved mirror that entirely hid his face from the world reflected everything and revealed nothing of the man beneath. Perhaps that was for the best. Annoyed by the interruption - he was about to beat his personal high score at _Arcade Classics Donkey Kong,_ but now had to put the game on hold and hide it with a quick screen saver - he hissed, "Destro. Is that the contract Extensive Enterprises negotiated with the Autobots for their ridiculous _dancing show_?" He sounded like he'd just bitten into an underripe lemon as he spat those last two words.

"Indeed, Cobra Commander," Destro answered, flipping through the papers and reading the final page. "This is a notarized copy of the original, shrunk down to a size feasible for _mere_ humans such as you and I. It arrived only minutes ago." Scowling beneath his mask, he reread some of the language that had made its way into the binding agreement. "Signed by their representative ... Jazz, if I'm reading this atrocious handwriting correctly, with the authority of their leader Optimus Prime. Bu-"

"Perfect!" Cobra Commander interrupted, not hearing the beginnings of the 'but' that he'd cut off. "Once those simpering Autobots gather on our stage for the night of their performance, we shall strike! The captured robots will be researched for new weapons and technology beyond our wildest imaginations, to say nothing of the officials, sponsors, and celebrities we will kidnap from the audience! We will hold them for ransom, and when they are finally released, the world will never suspect they will have been replaced by our synthoids! Ha, hahahaha!"

"I hate to cut off a good rant, Commander," Destro interrupted, though in truth, he wasn't the least bit sorry. In fact, he was more than a little glad to have done it. Sometimes, that screeching voice of the Commander's could really get on a person's nerves. "But it seems the robots will not be relocating to our site after all." Destro decided that the wave of smoldering silence suddenly emanating from the Commander was actually more unpleasant than his psychotic laughter. A lesser person might have been unnerved by it. "According to this," he added, indicating a three-page report hastily included in the folder, "the Autobots' reluctance to stage the event too far from their primary headquarters and their new facility proved adamant."

Cobra Commander was speechless for a long moment. His jaw was probably working silently behind his mirror mask as he fought for control of himself. "We squandered millions renovating the site of our attack into an appealing venue from the moment the robots first engaged in talks with Extensive Enterprises," he finally seethed, slow and dangerous. "Weeks worth of coordinating the resources for the operation will amount to nothing! How did our _brilliant_ Crimson Guard Commanders allow those walking toasters to simply waltz out of that end of our deal?"

Thumbing through the pages of notes typed hurriedly after Extensive Enterprises' face to faceplate meeting with the Autobots, Destro made a mental note that the peace-loving alien robots had clearly grown wise to human wiles in their relatively short time on this planet. "It appears this Jazz brought in an advocate of his own, apparently someone clever enough to out-negotiate even the keenest business minds COBRA could buy. Hmph." Beneath his steel face, the weaponer smirked, utterly confident that if _he_ had handled the negotiations instead of those mirror-image buffoons, the deal would have gone _very_ differently.

"Preposterous!" the terrorist leader shouted furiously. "Xamot and Tomax were educated at... gah! Never mind!" Throwing up his hands in genuine frustration, the serpentine commander paced for several moments, in clear agitation. He tried to think of several angles through this major setback he had been handed. "Ssso long as they managed to retain control of the audio/visual systems," he finally mused, his sibilants becoming more pronounced as he grew more and more perturbed, "COBRA will still be able to infuse our mind control programming into the broadcast. Hm. Yesss. This will enable us to brainwash those drooling couch potatoes in their comfortable homes into doing our bidding! Ha, ha-"

"I'm afraid that will not be happening either, Commander," Destro casually interrupted once again before the maniacal laughter could gain momentum. Amazingly enough, in the near silence that followed, the weapons supplier could have sworn he heard the sound of furiously grinding teeth coming from the vicinity of the supreme leader of COBRA. "As per the contract, signed and agreed to by _your_ authorized agents, the Autobots have retained complete creative control, and will be handling the audio and visual portions of the show themselves in cooperation with..." he flipped the page over and quickly looked for an addendum he'd noted earlier, "Starlight Music."

The Commander somehow looked completely dumbfounded, even behind his concealing silver mask. "Starlight Music?" he demanded.

"A major studio and recording label," Destro explained calmly. "I am quite certain you have heard of Jem and the Holograms?"

"Of course I know Jem and the Hologramsss!" Cobra Commander hissed. "I have - wait." Suspiciously, he cut himself off and studied Destro intently. "And just how do _you_ know Jem and the Hologramsss?"

"Er," was all a suddenly uncomfortable Destro could say. At that moment, both men abruptly found it much more interesting to study the nap of the carpet, or the texture of the walls, or the dead fly on the windowpane, anything but look the other squarely in the mask. Each had gotten an unexpected glimpse into the other's taste in music, and neither entirely liked what he saw. Finally, his Scottish brogue becoming a bit thicker in his discomfort, Destro managed to come up with a feeble excuse. "I know of them because ... er ... the Baroness ... has ... has a copy of their music in her quarters."

It was important to note that the Baroness was not in the room to defend herself at this time.

Just as awkwardly, Cobra Commander replied, "Yesss, the... televipers informed me of ... of the Baroness's music downloads. As a security matter, to ensure the security of our ... uh ... data." That being said, he slammed his hand emphatically on his desk. "That's how I know of Jem and the Holograms!"

The Baroness was, however, listening on an unsecured intercom channel that Cobra Commander had forgotten to turn off. She was, at this moment, not very pleased. No, not very pleased at all.

"Well, then," Destro quickly agreed, never suspecting the tongue-lashing they would both be in for shortly, "it would be wise to keep such data from being exposed."

"Indeed, so let'sss just keep this between ourselves, shall we?" Cobra Commander suggested decisively. Getting back to the subject at hand, he demanded, "What I want to know is if that wheeling and dealing Autobot negotiator left us with ownership of our own buildings! Is there any more bad newsss?"

"I would say the Autobots saw no use in our real estate, because Extensive Enterprises is still in possession of its own properties," Destro answered, adding another notch of sarcasm every time Cobra Commander got angrier. "However, the Autobots have renegotiated the sponsorship deals so that they will receive seventy percent of the advertising revenue above expenses - I'm rather impressed they got _that_ number past Tomax and Xamot, I thought they were reputed to be a bit more ruthless than that - and have retained the television rights to any subsequent re-airings. Oh, dear, it looks like they even lost the bid for production of commemorative souvenirs."

Cobra Commander felt a migraine coming on. "Did those twin dolts manage to get us _anything_ from this endeavor?"

"Airtime, Commander," Destro explained patiently. He, at least, could see that there was a silver lining to what otherwise appeared to be a complete debacle perpetrated by COBRA's supposedly most brilliant businessmen. Searching the document for the exact numbers, he furthered, "Extensive Enterprises will distribute the program to a national broadcast network as well as its international affiliates. Most importantly, those 'twin dolts' ensured our telecomm providers will receive thirty-six percent, and Extensive Enterprises, as the distributor, will receive an additional ten percent of the revenue generated from the text and 1-900 numbers to be used in the voting process."

"WHAT?" shouted the commander, now insulted on top of enraged. "PENNIES!" he spat. "They expect me to fund COBRA with _pennies_?"

"Indeed, Commander," Destro said with such placid calm in the face of the storm that even Buddha could have taken lessons at his feet. "Pennies. Just think. The Autobots have played their cards well and have parlayed their presence here into an immense popularity with the citizens of the world. And now, the whole world will be tripping over itself to watch this program. From what we have seen of similar shows, millions upon millions of our drooling public will be clamoring to pay a nominal fee to cast multiple votes for their favorite robotic darlings. _Billions_ of pennies will add up quite nicely, wouldn't you say?"

"Billionsss, you say?" In just the ticking of a few seconds, the man in the mirrored mask had gone from completely furious to rather pleased with the world. "And just how many times can a person vote for this meaningless drivel, noble Destro?"

Consulting the contract once more, Destro noted, "From all of the various media involved... up to twenty."

Rapidly doing the math in his head, Cobra Commander came to a resolute decision. "Call Extensive Enterprises immediately!" he ordered. "Have them contact the Autobots and generously offer to raise it to thirty."

O.O.O

"...and there you have it," Smokescreen concluded. "Like Jazz said, it's a honey of a deal for us, but at the same time, the distributor will turn enough of a profit to make the project worth all our while. Everyone's happy if you're happy."

"I am happy, as a matter of fact," Optimus agreed after he'd read and pondered every word of the contract, just to make sure nothing questionable and binding had been slipped into the verbiage. "I'm also impressed with your ... admirable restraint in renegotiating the terms."

"Well, I wouldn't want to drive our partners into bankruptcy or anything," Smokescreen said guilelessly, though everyone knew he could have done it if he really wanted to.

"I suppose that wouldn't exactly be the best way to start a business relationship," Optimus agreed, then gestured to the other contract that Jazz held. "And this, I take it, is a separate agreement with a production company?"

"Yeah, that's my baby," Blaster interjected, taking the contract from Jazz and laying it out on the table that Smokescreen had been using moments before. "While these guys here were wrangling with Extensive Enterprises, me and my boys," here he patted his chest deck with almost paternal pride, "had a nice, long talk with Miss Jerrica Benton, the owner and manager of Starlight Music, and her co-owner sister Kimber. Real nice girls." The musical mech beamed as brightly as his paint job.

There were a few murmurs of surprise and a bit of jealousy at Blaster's apparently awesome New York adventure. Prime, on the other hand, just stared blankly.

"Starlight Music?" Blaster repeated for his commander's benefit. "Major music label, and all?"

Optimus just continued to stare, utterly failing to see the significance.

"Y'know, Jem an' the Holograms?" Jazz suggested hopefully.

"I'm afraid the references are lost on me," Optimus Prime finally admitted.

Looking at each other with such pained expressions that they might as well have just been delivered news of Cybertron's total annihilation, Jazz and Blaster shook their heads sadly. "With all due respect, Boss," Jazz said mournfully, "sometimes you are the epitome of uncool."

"Oddly enough," the Autobot leader shrugged, "I take that as a compliment."

"And that's why we love ya, Chief!" Blaster responded cheerfully. "Now then. Here's what we got. Miss Benton - that's Jerrica Benton, she's the big boss there - agreed to loan us the use of what they call _Synergy_, which is pretty much the ultimate audio-visual entertainment synthesizer. Once we bounce it through Teletraan-2, it'll handle all the audio/visual effects, lighting, all that scrap. I mean, stuff," he hurriedly corrected his language with a glance at Optimus Prime. "Thing is, this is some pretty top-secret, hush-hush stuff. Nobody knows anything about it. It's Starlight's, well, kinda their secret weapon, so we can use it but we can't say one word about it. They just want us to say that _Dancing with the Autobots_ is created in partnership with Starlight Music, and leave it at that."

"I think we can respect that request," Optimus agreed, "though I want Computron to scan every byte of its code before you download anything into Teletraan-2."

"I told her you'd say something like that," Blaster nodded. "Starlight is officially cool with it, as long as we don't damage the goods. And they did it all for an advertising trade-out, plus ten percent of the gross of both ticket sales and officially licensed souvenirs, with the proceeds going to their main charity, the Starlight House Foundation."

"Sounds like quite the deal." This suspicious comment was from Prowl, who always seemed slightly distrustful of things that involved the word 'deal.' "Did Smokescreen help you negotiate this contract as well?"

"Nah, I had a secret weapon of my own," Blaster said with a casual wave of his hand. "Course, I started by letting Rewind and Eject do the talking at first."

The Autobots had long since learned that even though they had firmly established their peaceful intentions and willingness to cooperate with the peoples of this planet, even the friendliest of humans simply couldn't help but be intimidated in the presence of a thirty-foot tall robot that could easily squash them just by twitching a foot servo in an inattentive moment. The smaller the Autobot, they realized, the less daunting humans found them to be. Of the original _Ark_ crew, little Bumblebee had always been the most easily able to relate to humans, partly because of his infinitely charming personality, but mostly because his relatively small size put him so much nearer the humans' level of comfort.

When Blaster had finally arrived on this planet, he brought with him a small menagerie of cassettes that included two whose humanoid robot modes were only a touch taller than the average earthling. Rewind and Eject were the Cybertonians' idea of identical twins, but with vastly different personalities and areas of expertise.

While meeting with the co-owners of Starlight Music, Rewind had put them at ease by chatting with them about all sorts of music industry knowledge and trivia in general. Eject had eased into the topic of _Dancing with the Autobots _by explaining Jazz's vision of the friendly competition being similar to the Olympics in how they acted as a unifying event between the nations of Earth. The show would create a greater understanding and respect between humans and the Autobots who had gone out of their way to assimilate themselves into the culture of their adopted planet - for music and dance are universal aspects found in nearly every culture on the planet and throughout the galaxy.

"The little dudes were great for breakin' the ice," Blaster explained. "You could tell the ladies were sitting there thinking, 'Hey, cool, we're talking with a couple of alien robots and they're just like us!' instead of getting that, 'Holy scrap, he's huge!' look that they got when they first looked up and up and up at me. And that's when I cut loose with my secret weapon. Steeljaw."

"_Steeljaw_ is your secret weapon?" Wheeljack sounded as incredulous as most of the other Autobots looked.

"Lemme show you," Blaster answered, pressing one of the buttons at his waist so that his chest compartment snapped open. "Steeljaw, c'mon boy."

In response, a yellow cassette popped out of the open deck, and transformed into a life-sized robotic lion before landing neatly on all four paws. Swishing his metallic tail in readiness, he looked up to Blaster for instructions.

"See Gears sitting over there at his computer?" Blaster asked, crouching down next to his 'pet' cassette and pointing towards the mech in question. "Pretend he's Miss Jerrica, sitting at her desk there at Starlight Music, and show everyone how you won her over to our side."

Huffing some sound of agreement, the robotic cat padded towards Gears, who was looking a little uncertain at this sudden attention. About two yards away, Steeljaw stopped, dug his front claws in, then bowed his upper body almost to the floor in a languid, uniquely feline stretch so deep that vertebrae would have popped if he'd had an organic spine. Then, pacing forward a few steps, he flung his leonine body against a distinctly uncomfortable Gears's shins and rubbed back and forth a few times before flopping over onto his back at the mech's feet. All four paws splayed haphazardly in the air, the lion let out a deep, rhythmic rumble that could be taken for nothing other than the purr it was.

"Oh," Optimus said, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. "And here I was worried about _Smokescreen_ cheating."

"They thought he was just the _cutest_ thing," Blaster agreed. "_Outrageous_, even. That was Kimber B.'s exact word. He let them rub his tummy and everything. Personally, I think he just really liked Miss Jerrica's perfume and wanted to stay there sniffing her ankles the whole time we talked."

The twitch of Steeljaw's tail seemed to confirm that.

"After that, we had the contract hammered out in no time like we were all old friends," Blaster continued. "Except for Ramhorn," he added, in reference to his fourth cassette, a violently foul-tempered robotic rhinoceros. Patting his chest deck, which still contained the other Autobot cassettes, he explained, "He was taking a nap."

"Probably for the best," Optimus Prime agreed. "So are we ready to begin production?"

"Oh, sure," Jazz said, bubbling over with positive energy. "Just as soon as we locate us a venue, rebuild it into a suitable performance center, get us some sponsors, hire us some instructors, get us some hosts and judges, start rehearsin', get security clearance for the camera crew, an' film some promo spots to start airin' next month. Then we're ready to dance!"

Trying to make it sound like he was issuing an official command, Optimus ordered, "Then I suggest you get to it."

"No time like the present!" Jazz agreed. "Let's start with the first thing first. Where's our master builders? Grapple, Hoist, have we ever got a project for you! C'mon, let's go have a quick meetin' about it. Blaster, my man, shall we dance?"

"Lead on, my man!" Blaster answered, and the two mechs flung their arms comically around one another, aimed for the door, and, to the laughter of nearly everyone in the Command Center, made their exit with an uncoordinated dance style that resembled nothing on Earth so much as a poorly-run three-legged race. Causing even more mayhem was Steeljaw, who hopped up from his prone position and bounded boisterously around their retreating feet in an apparent attempt to deliberately trip them both.

Caught up in the mood, Hoist and Grapple looked at each other, shrugged, and decided to go with the flow. Locking arms in a very, very bad imitation of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, they drew cheers and applause from their fellow Autobots as they made for the exit with remarkably _less_ coordination than Jazz and Blaster. Apparently, they couldn't even decide who was leading. Laughing mechs dove right and left in an attempt to get out of their erratic path.

"That's just ... disturbing," Prowl commented as Grapple managed to plow Hoist right into the door frame.

O.O.O

Two hours later, Jazz had finished outlining the next part of the project to the utterly enthusiastic Grapple and Hoist, and, after leaving Blaster to the business of scripting a few commercials and promo spots, was now strolling through one of Metroplex's open courtyards, speaking with Prowl and Red Alert.

"... so if you can finish up that list an' get it to Ultra Magnus by the end of this week," Jazz was saying, "then he an' Prime can talk it over an' decide what parts of the city the camera crews can an' can't film in."

"I'd rather not have them here at all," Red Alert answered, the paranoia in his voice probably rating a level of 'yellow' today. "But I trust Ultra Magnus's judgment on which areas are less sensitive and more acceptable for filming. This is 'his' city, after all. He knows it like the back of his hand servo."

"And you want me to run background checks on every person hired for the film and production crew, including the dance instructors," Prowl added. Optimus had unequivocally ordered him to assist Jazz in any way necessary, and despite their widely disparate personalities, Prowl and Jazz were actually very good friends, so the Police 'Bot was obviously doing his best to not let his personal feelings on the matter show.

"Can't be too cautious," Jazz agreed, saying exactly what he knew his buddy wanted to hear. "An' hey! There's two 'Bots I want to see 'bout the next thing on my list!"

Across the courtyard, Springer and Arcee turned quickly at Jazz's shout. They had clearly been discussing something while standing in the shade of a second-story mezzanine, but immediately stopped speaking to one another at the approach of Jazz's little group. The Specialist figured that either meant they were on duty and reviewing classified Wreckers business that not even he was authorized to hear, or else they were off-duty and making some embarrassingly cuddly plans for the evening.

Jazz was far too much of a gentlebot to speculate whether it was the former or the latter. Out loud, anyway.

"Me an' Blaster just got the distribution an' production contracts signed for_ Dancin' with the Autobots_," Jazz explained to the couple, who flashed each other excited grins at the news. "So now we gotta start promotin' it. We got a crew comin' next week to start filmin' a couple advance commercials an' stuff to get people excited. So I'm tryin' to round up some of our contestants to strike a few dancin' poses for the camera."

"Uh, Jazz," Prowl interrupted before either Springer or Arcee could agree to anything. "Look, no offense to anyone, but you haven't even held auditions, so you haven't seen anyone dance yet. Why are you already so certain they'll make it to the finals?"

Giving the Police 'Bot a patient, long-suffering look, Jazz explained simply, "Because they're _hot_."

The answer got a giggle out of Arcee and a cocky grin from Springer, but Red Alert covered his faceplate with his hands and shook his head slowly, while Prowl merely cast his optics Heavenward and didn't reply.

Jazz, on the other hand, had seen enough televised competitive reality shows to know how the voting really worked. In point of fact, 'because they're hot' was a completely honest explanation for how so many competitors made it as far as they did. Still, in the end, many more contestants advanced because they had real talent and merit. "An' I'll bet ya they've got some pretty sweet moves, too," the Specialist added with just the barest of pauses. "Right, guys?"

"Oh, we've already been practicing," Springer agreed, turning to Arcee. "Observe." With a swiftness that startled even Jazz, the femme gracefully fell forward into her sparkmate's arms. He caught her at the very last second as she kicked up her leg to wrap it firmly around his waist, the two of them striking an almost shockingly sensual pose. Shooting Prowl that cocky grin again, Springer announced with a bad Latin American accent, "We _tango_!"

Prowl's optics nearly goggled out of his head as the couple, both humming a sultry tune - _Historia de un Amor_ - launched themselves into a provocative display of close, intricate footwork. They moved so intimately with one another that they might as well have been welded together from forehead to waist. It was a good trick, since Springer was at least a head taller than Arcee, but somehow, they managed. Dancing in this position allowed only movement from the waist down; their routine consisted mostly of sensually rolling hips, sinuously intertwining legs, and seductive dips and thrusts.

"Yeee-ow! Woo-HOO! Sexy, sexy, SEXY!" Jazz cheered, clapping his hands in enthusiastic approval. Casting a triumphant look at Prowl and the nearly-glitching Red Alert, he predicted, "_That_ oughta be enough to get 'em to the finals!"

"That ought to be _illegal!_" Prowl countered adamantly.

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 3 ..._


	3. A Venue

**Author's Note: **Every single location I mention in the first section of this chapter, even the Burgerville in the Dalles, is a real place. I made none of them up for the purposes of this story.

O.O.O

_**Dancing With The Autobots**_

Chapter 3: A Venue and a Commercial

O.O.O

Arguably the most scenic highway in the state, Interstate 84 wound its windy, breathtaking way along the Oregon side of the mighty Columbia River, from Portland all the way into Eastern Oregon and beyond. On this typically sunny-then-rainy Pacific Northwest afternoon, a rather odd caravan made its leisurely way east along this utterly beautiful route. Driving through sudden spring showers, taking a little time to admire the stunning landscape of the Columbia Gorge from the Vista House viewpoint, stopping to appreciate the natural beauty of Multnomah Falls, they were returning from a week-long trip to the largest metropolitan area in the state. They made a quick stop in The Dalles for lunch and fuel, and cast knowing glances at the hydroelectric dam in Sherman County as they neared the tiny town of Rufus.

At first glance, the casual viewer would never think that the four vastly different vehicles had anything to do with one another, much less that they comprised a caravan. The first to streak by was a white, racing-striped Martini 935 Porsche, with two passengers in its front seats singing along very badly to the loud music vibrating the car's speakers. Not far behind it was a bright yellow classic Volkswagen Bug, and it too carried two passengers, though there was no deafening music rattling from its sound system; its passengers instead were enjoying an afternoon fast-food meal. Only a short distance behind the Bug followed two more vehicles: in the left lane, a green Toyota pickup with a large, caution-orange towing apparatus in the bed, and in the right lane, pacing the green pickup, a yellow Mitsubishi Fuso crane truck.

This is where things might have gotten a bit odd, if the casual viewer noticed that these last two vehicles had no drivers or passengers whatsoever.

Things would have gotten really weird if the viewer hadn't been quite so casual, and noticed that the two passengers in the Porsche were, in fact, human-sized robots.

In the Bug rode the only two humans in this little procession. Earth's Chief Ambassador to Cybertron, the Emissary to the Autobots and Humanity's Liaison to the Prime, the Notable and Worthy Honorary Autobot, Mister Samuel James Witwicky, munched on a turkey burger from a paper sack imprinted with "Burgerville" and shared his sweet potato fries with his lovely wife, the world's foremost expert on xenorobotic engineering. Dr. Carly Witwicky was, at that moment, slurping on a fresh blackberry milkshake.

The Ambassador's title, while real and legitimate enough to open any door in Autobot City, tended to grow longer and more complicated as a running joke. Some of the more fun-loving Autobots liked to add words here and there just to see if the media could get it right. Optimus himself had insisted on the "Humanity's Liaison to the Prime" phrase. But whenever they weren't messing with frantically note-taking reporters, the Autobots always called their human friend the childhood nickname they had first known him by.

A small, yellow LED display on the dashboard of the Bug lit up, and a youthful, friendly voice filled the cab. "Hey, Spike? Had enough time to think it over?"

"Yeff, I haff-" Spike began, but then stopped, made a 'hang on a second' gesture, and quickly swallowed the bite of burger he was chewing. "Sorry about that, Bee. Yeah, I've been mulling it over. I just want to hear what Jazz and Hoist and everybody else thinks, too."

"Okay, I'll patch us through," Bumblebee answered, and this time a red LED lit up as the Autobot initiated an open radio link to the others. "Hey, guys? I-"

The occupants of the Bug were immediately assaulted with unbearably loud music and four horribly off-key voices attempting to sing along with it.

"-_We got everything you want, honey, we know the names! We are the people that can find, whatever you may need! If you got the money, honey -_"

"GAH! Guys! Shut up!" Spike shouted as he and Carly reflexively clamped their hands over their ears and the Bug gave a strange lurch that might have been a bump in the road but was more likely a pained cringe.

"Wha-? Spike? Bumblebee?"

One of the voices, possibly Blaster's, could vaguely be heard as the other three continued to belt out at top volume, "_In the jungle! Welcome to the jungle! Watch it bring you to your sha na na na na na na na knees, knees!_"

"Make it stop!" Carly howled in visible agony.

"REWIND! EJECT!" Blaster's voice suddenly bellowed over the cacophony. "Shut your yapper circuits! Can it, Jazz!"

The music and the verbal insults being done to it ceased immediately.

About three seconds passed in blessed silence, then Grapple's slightly peeved voice came over the link and demanded, "What in the name of Vector Sigma was _that_ supposed to be?"

"Guns 'n' Roses, _Welcome to the Jungle_, from their 1987 album _Appetite for Destruction_," Rewind supplied helpfully from where he sat in Jazz' passenger seat.

"We know _that_," Grapple answered with mild exasperation. "It's just - oh, never mind. Bumblebee? What's up?"

"I, uh," Bumblebee answered slowly, just finishing a quick diagnostic to make sure he hadn't blown out his audio receptors. "We just wanted to know if everyone had the chance to think over our options. Prime's going to ask for our recommendation, so we ought to narrow it down to one or two choices."

"All righty, then," Jazz agreed, "let's hear what we got."

After Grapple had seen to a small but important project the week prior, and footage for the first commercials promoting _Dancing with the Autobots_ had been filmed, Jazz and Blaster had tapped this small group to go in search of a venue for the live finale of their show. Grapple and Hoist had been chosen to help assess the possible locations in person, because the two of them had accepted the task of overseeing construction of a reinforced, Autobot-sized ballroom stage for the competition. Spike and Carly had also been asked along for the human perspective. While Jazz and the others were thinking in terms of size and accessibility for thirty- to forty-foot tall dancing robots, the two earthlings were more accurately able to judge seating, audience comfort, parking and other factors through the eyes of the humans who would be using them. And, as much as the Autobots were generally loved and admired by the population of Earth, it was still a little easier for the managers of the possible locations to have a human to negotiate with on their own levels.

Bumblebee had come along pretty much because wherever his human best friend went, he went too. Fortunately, the little Autobot had long since parlayed his relatively small size and approachable demeanor into the position of Official Spokesbot, which came in useful on this trip. He and the Ambassador were an inseparable team, and Jazz had allowed them to do most of the schmoozing while he conferred with Blaster about the business benefits of the deals and Hoist and Grapple crawled all over the venue to get the feel for the aesthetics.

Rewind and Eject had come along mostly because Blaster forgot to let his cassettes out of his deck before they'd departed. In fact, Steeljaw and Ramhorn were still in said deck, and Blaster himself was transformed into his boom-box mode and perched in the console between Jazz's seats. Eject was having the time of his life, sitting behind Jazz's steering wheel and pretending he was winning the Indy 500 as they sped along the highway.

The trip had started with two days in Portland, visiting all the major stadiums and auditoriums they'd researched online, then went along the Sunset Highway for a few quick stops in the suburb of Hillsboro. From there, they drove to the coast to visit the seaside town of Tillamook, and then the next day took a detour to the second-largest city in the state, the university town of Eugene. After that, they went back north, stopped briefly in the State Capitol of Salem, spent one more day in Portland, and were now heading home with banks of fresh data to ponder.

"Okay," Spike said as his wife dug half a ream of papers and pamphlets out of her purse, "why don't we start with the ones we can eliminate right away? From the way I'm picturing things, the Rose Garden is just too small. So is ..." he flipped through a few of the brochures that Carly handed him to refresh his memory, "... the Memorial Coliseum." Folding the papers, he handed them back to Carly, who stuffed them into her purse again.

"Guys?" Jazz asked over the comm link.

"I concur," Hoist said in his distinctive, British accent. "Much too small for the task."

"Okay, they're out," Jazz agreed. "What else?"

"The areas inside the Expo Center were a little too small and didn't have any seating," Carly noted, folding up another stack of papers. "The Convention Center might be okay. The ceilings were certainly high enough in the main area, and they hold the Portland International Auto Show there every year. But again, we have the problem of no real seating for the type of event we want to hold. If people are going to pay a hundred dollars for a ticket, they're not going to want to sit on a folding chair."

"'Kay, then, what about the outdoor venues?" Blaster's radioed voice asked.

"Well, the-" Carly began.

"_Punch buggy yellow!_" Eject's voice shouted over the radio link.

"I didn't do it!" Bumblebee immediately yelped, but the metallic _clank_ that echoed over the radio indicated that Eject, like most siblings on a long car trip, must have been more interested in finding an excuse to clobber his brother than anything else. Another _clank_ implied that Rewind had retaliated.

"Guys..." Blaster said in a warning tone.

There was a moment of sulky silence over the radio.

"Ahem," Hoist said, going to the mighty effort of bringing things back on topic, "I personally feel we ought to rule out the State Fairgrounds and the Washington County Fairgrounds. Certainly, they're big enough, but they just weren't _classy_."

"The Hillsboro Stadium wasn't too bad," Carly suggested, still leafing through the endless supply of literature she had amassed. "The field was about the right size. It only seats seven thousand, though. Maybe we should put that one on our list of backup locations. Since it's outdoors, it wouldn't be so hard to build some extra seating if we had to. Same thing with the Portland International Raceway."

"The Tillamook Air Museum had some great space with those empty blimp hangars," Grapple radioed in. "I could make one of them over into a ballroom like you've never imagined!"

"Let's put that on the list of backup locations, too," Spike said neutrally, trying not to squash Grapple's enthusiasm too badly. "It had some great space, all right, but it's an hour and a half drive from Portland. I know that's not a big deal for you guys, but there's going to be a lot of people flying in from all over the country for this event: Camera crews, sponsors, reporters, probably most of the audience, too. They're not going to want to drive that far after flying in from who-knows-where. I think we should probably keep it a little closer to a major airport if we can. On the upside," he added, reaching into a cooler on Bumblebee's back seat, "there's the Tillamook Cheese Factory practically right next door!" He pulled out a shapeless lump of something cheddar-yellow and held it up with a smile. "Squeaky cheese!" he exclaimed, popping the curd into his mouth, chewing with gusto and with a clear, squeaking sound.

"Will you stop that?" Carly asked in minor exasperation. "Those are for Danny! If you keep that up, there won't be any left for him by the time we get back!"

"These are mine," Spike said defensively, even as he reached for another curd. "I bought him his own package. Besides, they're supposed to be his reward if he's good and doesn't get in trouble while we're away. Since when is our kid capable of that?"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Bumblebee laughed. "I mean, look who's baby-sitting him!"

"You're not reassuring me," Spike grinned after noshing down another lump of cheese. "Sure, Arcee's doing her best to keep him out of trouble, but on the other hand, you've got Hot Rod and Springer doing their best to get him _in_ trouble. Two against one, I'm not sure about those odds."

"Honey," Carly said with infinite patience and a hint of a knowing smile, "it's been almost a week and we never got a single call to say that Danny destroyed anything, annoyed anyone, or broke any rules. I don't care if it is two against one, I can guarantee you who's winning that fight."

Over in Jazz's cab, Rewind and Eject cast amused glances at one another, then held up their left hands with their smallest digits extended, and, in perfect synchronization, pantomimed two someones being wrapped around someone else's dainty little finger.

Nobody else in the caravan could figure out what the sudden chorus of chuckles from Jazz's cab signified.

"Well," Jazz finally said when he stopped laughing, "back to the subject. It kinda sounds like you're gravitatin' to one venue in particular."

"Yeah," Spike answered, his eyes lighting up with the passion of a true fan as he closed the cooler and opened one final brochure. "Autzen Stadium, home of the University of Oregon Ducks."

"GO DUCKS!" Eject immediately cheered over the radio.

"Hm," Jazz said thoughtfully, considering the mostly favorable impression the college football stadium had made on him. "Well, it was definitely big enough."

"It had seating and parking to handle a crowd of fifty-four thousand," Rewind reminded them. "It's the largest sporting arena in the state."

"Eugene has the second biggest airport in the state, and they have enough hotels and accommodations to handle that many tourists," Carly agreed. "It's a pretty good-sized hub, and it's only a day trip from Autobot City, so we won't need Skyfire and Omega Supreme to ferry everybody there."

"There was plenty of space on the field to construct a beautiful stage," Grapple contributed.

"And it's the home of the Ducks!" the Pac-12 Football-loving Spike repeated happily. "All we have to do is work our finale around the football schedule, and it's perfect!"

"Well, hang on a sec," Blaster said a little uncertainly. "Autzen was an open-air stadium. I thought the weather's kinda tricky in Eugene. What if it rains?"

"Haven't you ever heard the expression," Eject said in slightly insulted tones, "_It never rains at Autzen Stadium_?"

"That is a complete fallacy," Rewind interrupted. "In the past year alone, records from the National Weather Service report that-"

"There's a reason why the U of O mascot is a _duck_, guys," Spike interrupted firmly before the twin cassettes could start picking on one another again. "But seriously, we're going to be performing there in the first part of September. The weather usually holds through early fall. I say Autzen's just what we need."

"I like it," Hoist volunteered.

"Works for me!" Grapple added.

"I'm cool," Jazz supplied.

"Then I think we're agreed," Carly said, digging into the Burgerville bag once more. "Autzen it is. Now we just have to-"

"Hey!" Bumblebee's voice suddenly shouted, the yellow LED display on his dashboard lighting up frantically. "Hey, hey, hey, hey, HEY! CARLY!"

The young woman froze, a handful of sweet potato fries halfway to her mouth. "Um, what?"

"_You dropped a French fry_!" the little Autobot told her with life-or-death urgency.

"My goodness, it's the end of the world," Carly answered, inspecting the floorboards beneath her feet. Picking up the offending morsel, she tossed it out the window that Bumblebee opened for her. It hit the shoulder of the highway and was gobbled up by a roadside crow before it even stopped bouncing. "There, you've been rescued from the Evil Potato Stick of Doom."

"I just don't want a repeat of last time," Bumblebee answered with a hint of a sulk.

"I said I was sorry," Carly tried.

"I know, and I believe you," the Autobot answered, "but do you have any idea how _embarrassing_ that was? Here I went running to Medical all in a panic, thinking I'd broken a gear or a cog because something was rattling loose inside me, only to have Ratchet surgically extract a package of _Twizzlers_?"

"Yes, but I must say, the look on Ratchet's faceplate was worth every bit as much as the look on yours," Hoist chuckled, and everyone burst out laughing.

"HEY!" an embarrassed Bumblebee yelled, and immediately terminated the radio link.

O.O.O

Back from their trip and done reporting to Optimus, Jazz entered his private quarters in the _Ark_. Some 'Bots thought he was crazy for still living here, when he could have had his pick of the new, state of the art officers' quarters in Metroplex. Officially, his reason for not moving into Autobot City was that he had been given command of the day-to-day operations in the _Ark_, and, until such time as their original headquarters were no longer in use, it was in everyone's best interests for the base commander to actually live on base.

Besides, the _Ark_ was simply home. His slightly askew quarters in the crashed spaceship were stylishly chaotic, just like their owner: plastered with music and movie memorabilia, stacked high with gadgets and gizmos, and completely manic with equal portions of Earth and Cybertonian culture. He loved it here. Autobot City was just too orderly for his tastes.

In the middle of this turmoil, tall and proud amongst a jumble of data pads that had been haphazardly pushed to the sides of his desk, stood a glittering, golden spire with a brilliant, multi-faceted ball atop. Grinning to himself, Jazz walked over to the desk and admired the sculpture once again. Grapple had really outdone himself when he'd made this trophy.

This was the small task that Grapple had attended to before their trip to the Portland Metro area: creating the prize to be presented to the winners at the end of _Dancing with the Autobots._ He'd finished itjustin time to get some fantabulous shots of it for the commercials. Grapple had the spark of an artist, and with this sculpture, he'd perfectly captured the symbolism Jazz had been hoping for. He and Hoist had carefully reviewed Jazz's tapes of various dancing and musical competitions, looking for inspiration for the trophy that needed to be built. It hadn't taken long to find it.

The trophy itself was twelve feet tall, gigantic by human standards but only moderately-sized to the average Autobot. On top was a disco ball, in homage to similar trophies that humans presented on their dancing shows, but instead of being made of silver or crystal, it was faceted with thousands of tiny gold mirror tiles. Gold, like the _Ark_. Gold, like Iacon in its heyday.

For that was what the base of the trophy represented: the spire of the Autobot capital of Iacon, one of the very few cities on Cybertron that had never fallen to the Decepticons during this entire, nine-million year long war. This proud symbol of the Autobots' cause, merged in this trophy with such a widely-recognized human symbol for dancing, flawlessly reflected the spirit of Earth-Cybertonian cooperation that the Autobots held so dear.

"Ya done good, Grapp," Jazz smiled to himself, then looked down at the stacks of paper that had colonized his desk while he'd been gone. Mail. He had a hard time with the concept sometimes, having been accustomed to nothing but electronic communications on Cybertron, but once he realized that mail had a subset called 'fan mail,' he'd become much more receptive of the idea.

To an Autobot of Jazz's size, the envelopes were miniscule, so he picked them up with a pair of tweezers that he kept on hand for the task. Zooming in the magnification of his optics, he flipped through the letters and read the return addresses, tossing aside three that looked like they were trying to sell him an internet/cell phone/television package, and another eight that declared his credit was already pre-approved.

He stopped when he recognized an envelope from the network that would be airing _Dancing with the Autobots_. Fairly sure what the letter was about, he nonetheless carefully slit the envelope open with help from the tweezers, extracted the contents, and popped the pages into a tiny slot in the side of his desk computer. Seconds later, the monitor came to life, displaying the enlarged contents of the letter.

Slowly, the Specialist's smile spread across his faceplate as he read. It was really, really, _really_ happening! The network had picked up the show for the six episodes he had predicted, and pretty much agreed to almost everything he and Blaster had asked. They'd changed the filming schedule a bit, pushing it up three weeks earlier than Jazz had expected, but he didn't think that was a major deal-breaker. The network was handling the business of pitching to sponsors, with the caveat that they would first offer the advertising opportunity to a list of major suppliers the Autobots relied on. In addition to Starlight Music, the network claimed to have already signed Symultech Industries and Goodyear Tires.

The network was also taking responsibility for auditioning and hiring the dance instructors. Jazz hoped they remembered that all humans involved in this production were subject to final approval by the Autobots, and would have to submit to a security and background check by Prowl. He further noted that the network had agreed to let the Autobots find judges and hosts for the show from their own ranks. At this point, Jazz had only a very vague idea of what they were going to do about judges, but he was quite certain who his hosts were going to be. He just had to let them know they'd been recruited.

The network was licensing the production of commemorative hats and clothing to Columbia Sportswear, and soundtrack and video sets were to be handled through Starlight Music. A line of souvenir toys was being manufactured by some company named Hasbro. Jazz frowned beneath his visor. Hasbro? He'd never heard of them.

Advancing the screen to the page that detailed the format of the six-week show, Jazz made a mental note of the time and night of the week it would be airing. Not bad. Not bad at all. It was a time slot of a network that knew a gemstone had fallen into its hands.

"Two episodes of auditions," Jazz read to himself. "Announce the contestants at the end of the second episode ... 'kay, no problem. Three episodes of the contestants learnin' how to dance, workin' with the instructors, some backstage drama, personalities on parade ... one week of filmin' gets boiled down to an hour-long episode. Huh. Hope that don't cause Red Alert to glitch again. Final episode aired live at a venue of our choice ... prob'ly should tell 'em we got us a venue now. Nah, maybe I should wait 'til Blaster actually books it."

Reading on, Jazz stopped abruptly, scrolled back, and reread one particular paragraph a second time over. The network was arranging several talk-show interviews to promote the competition. Talk shows? How come he hadn't thought of talk shows?

Making it to the last page, Jazz's smile burst into an all-out grin. The initial proofs of two eight-second long promo spots and one twenty-second long, full commercial were completed and available for download, awaiting his approval before their first air dates at the end of this month. Quickly, he toggled on another computer with a ginormous, high-definition monitor that he used for surfing the internet in his spare time. Typing in the address spelled out in the letter, he giddily watched the media viewer pop up onscreen. This was exciting! He was about to click the Play button, when at last he hesitated.

He should probably get Optimus in here to watch this, he realized. It really wasn't Jazz's approval that the network was waiting for, it was Prime's. So the mech with the ultimate say-so should really be previewing this, too. And Ultra Magnus ought to approve it as well, because the Commander was concerned about sensitive parts of his city being broadcast on public television. Prowl should be in here too. And Kup and Red Alert, since they were all part of Autobot security and would want to make sure that the commercial didn't constitute a breach or leak of any sort.

The correct course of action would be to take the time to round up all those mechs so they could preview and approve the commercial proofs all at once.

"Nah, they can wait," Jazz said aloud, ignoring the correct course of action when a harmlessly gratifying one was available instead. He punched Play.

O.O.O

Sixteen days later, all was quiet on the Autobot front. In the past two weeks, they had fought two minor and one fairly major battle with the Decepticons, but the last few days had been peaceful and all the damages from those skirmishes had been cleaned up and repaired.

In the rec rooms throughout Autobot City, in the Command Center, around Teletraan-1 in the _Ark_, in private quarters in both locations, and even on the two moon bases, nearly the entire Autobot population on Earth had dropped whatever it was doing to crowd around every available television screen. According to the airtime schedule that the network had sent Jazz, the viewing world was in for a surprise in exactly one minute and seventeen seconds. That was when the first commercial for _Dancing with the Autobots_ was going to air.

Some waited in expectant silence. Others jabbered happily with their friends and neighbors, guessing what they were going to see. All of them were excited.

O.O.O

"Woo-HOO! Soundwave! Show it again!"

Striding the halls of the _Victory_, deep beneath the waters of the Pacific Ocean, Starscream paused in suspicion when he heard Octane calling out over a chorus of cheering, mocking, cat-calling Decepticon voices coming from the bridge. Moments later, the second-in-command could have sworn he heard ... music?

More jeering. More wolf-whistles. Beneath that, Starscream thought a pre-recorded voice was narrating something, but the ruckus from his comrades was too loud to make anything out.

As curious as he was annoyed, Starscream strode into the bridge, only to behold half the Decepticon army crowded around a large monitor and paying attention to nothing else whatsoever. Some of them were hooting and jeering, others were just laughing their afts off. Down at the level of most of the Decepticons' knees, Rumble and Frenzy were doing ... _something_ that didn't bear too much scrutiny, but which was drawing even more laughter from the others. Octane, Skywarp, Wildrider and Thrust seemed to be trying to out-shout each other's vulgarities as they pointed and laughed at the monitor.

"Yeah, baby!" (Starscream sneered at Octane's use of that distinctly organic term.) "You can interface with my power supply any day!"

"You take the red one," Thrust shot back. "I get the blue one! She's a hot piece of tailgate!"

"Are you kidding?" Skywarp demanded. "The blue one looks like she can cut your aft off and hand it to you on an electrum platter! Give me the pink one!"

"There's two pink ones!" Wildrider pointed out.

"Fine, I'll take both!" Skywarp leered.

"They make themselves look like a bunch of slagging idiots," Onslaught was heard to comment.

"When do they _not_?" Swindle countered mockingly.

"And here I thought Prime was just an old clunker," Hook sneered, doing, of all things, a _pirouette_, and somehow he made it look disparaging. "Oh, wait, he still is! Do they honestly expect us to take this seriously?"

"Play it again!" Thrust ordered, and finally, Starscream caught a glimpse of Soundwave sitting in front of the terminal, operating its controls. The music and narration started up again.

"Ya-HOO! Make my motor run, gorgeous!" Wildrider cat-called. "I'd love to take that one for a spin 'off-roading' for sure!"

Starscream had no idea what the others were looking at, but he felt their behavior was appalling anyway. The Seeker felt some relief in solidarity when Astrotrain, who was also watching the monitor, turned to his comrades and said in clear disgust, "I can't believe you guys are getting revved up by this. They're _Autobots_!"

"More like_ Hawt-obots_!" Octane hooted, his optics never leaving the monitor.

"You know what?" Astrotrain said, tossing his hands in the air as he moved to the other side of the crowd, "I'm just going to stand over here and pretend I don't know you morons."

"Bite my lugnuts," Octane challenged his fellow Triple-Changer. "You don't have the-"

"_What_ is going on here?" Starscream finally demanded, striding into the room as if he'd just arrived. He was rather pleased to watch everyone jump and turn guiltily in his direction. Octane and Thrust, he noted, looked guiltier than the rest. A clearly embarrassed Skywarp looked everywhere except at the Air Commander, but Wildrider just giggled in that insane manner of his and turned back to the monitor.

Angry at the lack of response to his question, Starscream was about to repeat himself when he finally caught sight of the monitor and what was playing on it. He fell silent, his mandible hanging open in the aborted process of forming a word, and just stared.

"Televised content from one of the human broadcast channels," Soundwave finally explained in his eerily calm monotone.

"I can see that," Starscream snapped, not sure what else to say. "Has Megatron been informed of this?"

"Megatron's presence has been requested," Soundwave answered unflappably.

"Excellent. Then-"

"Megatron is here," said a cold voice from the doorway, and this time, even Starscream flinched visibly as they turned to face their Supreme Leader. Brushing past Starscream with barely a glance, Megatron demanded, "I suppose you have some purpose for disturbing me?"

Completely out of the blue, Starscream suddenly realized that this was one of his rare, lucky days. Megatron had actually overheard him making a statement that seemingly acquiesced to their Commander's superiority, rather than a statement implying that Megatron should be thrown on the trash heap with yesterday's obsolete junk. That's probably why their leader all but ignored him just now - he couldn't think of a reason for an overt display of ire.

"Indeed, Lord Megatron," Soundwave explained evenly, and the crowd parted to allow their iron-fisted ruler an unfettered view of the monitor. "This broadcast requires your immediate attention."

"Very well, Soundwave," Megatron conceded as he placed his hands on the console and leaned forward towards the viewscreen in concentration. "Proceed."

Taking advantage of the other Decepticons backing away, Starscream pushed forward so he, too, could see more than just a glimpse of whatever it was the others were so excited about. He positioned himself behind Soundwave's chair just as the monitor began a slow fade from black to royal blue, coupled with rising notes of music. It was human music, so Starscream couldn't be bothered to pinpoint what genre it was. Instrumental, no voice, no electronics, that's all he noted. Then, another light, this one silvery-white, grew from the bottom of the screen like a sunrise, backlighting ten figures standing in a row. Though they were only dark shadows at the moment, Starscream could easily recognize the individual shape of each silhouette.

So, apparently, could Megatron. "Optimus Prime?" he asked, staring at the boxy, tall figure in the center, his normal tone of disdain clearly mingling with confusion at the odd theatricality of the broadcast.

"Prepare for the ballroom extravaganza that spans two worlds!" the commercial's narrator began, and the screen burst into an explosion of glitter and light. When the flare faded, the set appeared to be a ballroom curtained with blue velvet - the Decepticons had no way of knowing that the Autobots had hastily converted one of their training gymnasiums into a commercial set by hanging yards of fabric on cables and polishing the floor until it shone. They were more focused on the footage of the Autobot, Inferno, gracefully spinning his partner Firestar around once, then taking her by the hand and waist so the two of them could dance a circle around each other with some amazingly complicated footwork. "The music!" the narrator exclaimed, followed by another glittery flare which faded into a clip of Arcee and Springer lunging into the provocative tango pose that had nearly cost Prowl his optics. "The moves!"

"Yee-OW! You can move in my direction any time, baby!" Onslaught leered, and immediately, everyone was cheering and jeering and laughing at the commercial, drowning out the narrator as the next bit of footage showed Ironhide and Chromia launching into some sort of dance that involved them swinging around and bumping afts. Starscream finally figured out what Rumble and Frenzy were doing: They were mockingly repeating the steps they saw onscreen, to the laughter of those around them. He clued in to the two punks' antics when they tried the same aft-bump, and missed entirely. Frenzy lost his balance and nearly fell to the floor.

"I wouldn't mind putting a few dents in her chassis, if you know what I mean!" Ramjet exclaimed over the chorus of cat-calls and wolf-whistles.

"Oh, yeah, that she-bot really revs my afterburners!" Thrust answered. "Just give me one breem with her and-"

"SILENCE!" Megatron roared furiously.

Every Decepticon immediately shut his vocal processor and stood ramrod-straight, terrified that they'd pushed Megatron's ire over the edge. Even Rumble and Frenzy did not dare twitch.

_Two for two,_ Starscream reflected smugly. _Megatron was yelling at everybody BUT me that time._

"Repeat the broadcast from the beginning," Megatron peevishly instructed Soundwave.

The screen went blank, then the lights and music faded in once more. Fortunately, the silence in the room continued, though Starscream noticed Wildrider and Skywarp quietly making vulgar gestures when they thought Megatron wasn't looking.

The commercial played again, and in addition to the parts they had already seen, it continued on with Optimus Prime elegantly twirling Elita One and then dropping her into a graceful dip, followed by the twin brothers, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, doing something that involved leaping, twisting, and striking odd poses. Starscream knew humans called the style "hip hop," though he wasn't sure where or when he'd heard that phrase, or why he even cared. Still, for reasons he couldn't even explain to himself, the egotistical Starscream found himself reflecting that though he had never danced a step in his life, his moves simply _had_ to be better than everything he'd just witnessed.

The commercial ended with a strikingly showy display of the beautiful trophy that Grapple had created, rotating slowly, the disco ball glittering with a thousand tiny flares of golden light. "Watch as Cybertron's finest dance for the right to claim the trophy," the narrator continued. "_Dancing with the Autobots_ - coming this August!"

The image faded. For a long moment, all remained perfectly, nervously, silently still. Soundwave, the one exception, turned in his chair with his legendary unshakeable calm, facing Megatron and awaiting instructions.

Finally, with a deeply crafty, thoughtful tone, Megatron ordered, "Repeat transmission."

He didn't know why, but Starscream suddenly had a bad feeling about this. He watched with a growing sense of apprehension as the commercial replayed itself. Megatron was pondering something that was beyond any of their comprehension; that much was obvious by the slightly lost and nonplussed expressions on his fellow Decepticons' faceplates.

"Freeze picture," Megatron ordered just before the commercial ended, and the image of the trophy stopped in mid-rotation. He stared at the monitor for a long, brooding moment.

Behind him, Starscream heard Motormaster whisper carefully to someone else, "Prime's nothing! I'd show that Elita One why they call me _Motormaster_!"

"And why they call me _Thrust_!" came the whispered answer.

He worked with a bunch of boors. That's all Starscream had to say on the issue.

"Starscream," Megatron finally spoke, casting a glance at his second-in-command.

"Yes, mighty Megatron?" Starscream asked, forcing his tone to sound respectful. No sense pushing his luck today.

"What do you see when you view this broadcast?"

Starscream had an immediate answer for that. "I see a bunch of Autobots making utter fools of themselves," he spat disdainfully.

"And that is all?" Megatron demanded.

A few of the Decepticons looked at one another in confusion, and Starscream understood precisely how they felt. What, exactly, was Megatron asking? "I see Optimus Prime making himself out to be the biggest fool of them all," the Seeker added, for lack of a better answer.

"Of course you would fail to see the significance," Megatron condescended. "Even if it is right before your optics." Turning back to the monitor, he stared cunningly and greedily at the image of the golden sculpture onscreen. "I must have that trophy!" he declared covetously, slamming his fist on the console for emphasis.

Starscream groaned inwardly. He just _knew_ Megatron was going to say something like that.

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 4 ..._


	4. Drama

**Author's Note: **For the most part, I made up the pet names that Jazz has for the femmes, however, it was in someone else's fanfic that I picked up his nickname for Elita, "the Little Pink Bulldozer." I would love to credit the author who came up with that, unfortunately, it's been so long that I don't remember what fic that was or who wrote it. I'm more than happy to give credit wherever credit is due ... wherever that may be.

O.O.O

_**Dancing With The Autobots**_

Chapter 4: Drama

O.O.O

Blaster had a very special skill that few Autobots had ever, or would ever, achieve. He was completely unaffected by the chaos of Jazz's quarters. While most mechs would have itched to compulsively organize the manic array of memorabilia, magazines, computer equipment, and other mysterious objects into some semblance of order that made sense to anyone else besides Jazz, (perhaps after first shooting holes in the high-tech sound system currently booming out deafening rock music), Blaster seemed rather at home as he leaned back in the chair, his foot servos resting casually on a recently unearthed patch of clean desktop.

Thumbing his way through the readout on a data pad, the Communications 'Bot suggested, "What about Ultra Magnus?"

Almost a week after having booked Autzen Stadium, thus setting an official date for the live finale of _Dancing with the Autobots,_ Blaster and Jazz were busy with the task of selecting the judges for their show. After watching enough human musical and dancing competitions to get the feel for how it all worked, they'd decided on a particular format for the judges' panel: They needed one mech who could only be called "flamboyant and fabulous," a blunt, gruff, straight-talking mech who wasn't afraid to tell it like it is, and a perky, effervescent femme.

Flamboyant and fabulous was easy. Tracks, who had long since resigned himself to that kind of innuendo from the people of this planet, was more than happy that Jazz had appointed him to the panel of judges. Certainly, the idea of throwing around the weight of his opinion while posing his showy self for the camera had its appeal to the rather stuck-up Autobot, but mostly, he knew that being a judge essentially negated any chance of Jazz 'recruiting' him for the all-mech dance squad. He'd practically tripped over himself in his haste to agree to the assignment.

Blaster and Jazz were having a little more difficulty deciding on the gruff straight-talker, surprisingly enough. Originally they wanted Ironhide to fill the role, but quickly realized that since they'd already put him and Chromia in the commercial, it was highly likely the old warhorse was going to be a competitor instead.

Half obscured by the trophy that still dominated the desk, Jazz also leaned back and kicked his foot servos up. "Magnus? Hm. Dunno about that. Sure, he's blunt when he wants to be – which is pretty much all the time – but don't ya think it'll weird everyone out, havin' to dance in front of a superior officer an' all?"

"Maybe, 'cept for Prime and Elita," Blaster mentioned.

Jazz laughed. "That'll be even worse, my man."

Blaster thought about that for a moment. "Y'think he won't be able to criticize Prime if he screws up?"

"Nah." Jazz shook his head. "Magnus's got himself a cast iron manifold. It don't bother him to look his bro right in the optic an' tell him he did somethin' wrong." Shrugging, the Specialist added, "Though it don't hurt that Prime deliberately _asks_ all of us for that kind of feedback. I'm just thinkin' Magnus would have an epic fail when it came time to criticize _Elita_."

Blaster thought this over and realized that Jazz had a point. Then, at the same moment, both mechs grinned at each other, held up their left hands with last digits extended, and symbolically wrapped Ultra Magnus around Elita One's little finger.

"Okay, that's settled," Jazz laughed. "How 'bout Perceptor? He could do a scientific analysis of each dancer's, y'know, rhythm an' dynamics of motion an', um, their interpretation of the, uh, mathematical basis of the music an', y'know, stuff. Plus, we all know he can do it without gettin' all emotional about it. Believe me, he can tell it like it is."

Blaster gave Jazz an even look. "An' tell it, an' tell it, an' tell it..."

Jazz grinned, conceding the point, and then both mechs were suddenly chanting in unison, "...an' tell it, an' tell it, an' tell it!" When they stopped, they both had a hearty laugh at themselves, and, with a somewhat self-deprecating gesture, Jazz snickered, "'Kay, let's just chalk that one up to _what was I thinkin' there_ an' move on. Who else we got?"

"Sky Lynx? He can pull off arrogant and aristocratic like nobody's business." Drawing himself up formally, Blaster put on a disturbingly weird-sounding, stuffy accent and, waving a stiff finger servo in the air, intoned, "Your attempt at 'dance,' as we shall so graciously call it, was performed with a fluidity matched only by frenzied Sharkticons! It seemed as though you were trying to free one another from the surface of the planet Goo!"

Jazz laughed at the accuracy of the impression, but after a moment, his lazy smile faded. "Y'know, he'd be perfect if he wasn't so darned big. I dunno if we could fit him in the stadium when it comes time for the live show."

"Um ... he could watch from orbit? Y'know, we could send him a live video feed through Skyspy?"

"It might work. But let's just keep him in mind an' put him on reserve for now," Jazz suggested. "Unless we don't got anyone else?"

"There's always Kup. Probably shoulda thought of him first."

After a thoughtful moment, Jazz nodded. "Crotchety ol' timer who ain't got no problem offerin' his opinion, 'specially to them turbo-revvin' young punks. But, uh … when it comes to the li'l ladies, don't ya think he's kinda like this?" Jazz held up his little finger again.

"Well, yeah," Blaster agreed. "But it's pretty obvious that _all_ the ladies got him wrapped around their little fingers, so that kinda levels the playing field. And you know how much he loves having an audience."

"Righty then, Kup it is!" Jazz pronounced.

In organizing _Dancing with the Autobots_, Jazz and Blaster had developed the habit of simply appointing various individuals to whatever task they were most suited for, and informing them of their assignments at a later time. In their enthusiasm, they'd pretty much bypassed the step of asking said individuals if they were willing to participate in the first place.

Yesterday, Spike and Bumblebee had been notified of their appointments as the show's hosts. Neither of them had to really listen to Jazz's "showcase of the finest example of human-Autobot friendship" spiel, or Blaster's "both of you are already comfortable in front of a camera from your Ambassadorial and Spokesbot roles" logic. They just looked at each other in amusement, surrendered to their fates, and agreed to whatever Jazz wanted.

"I'm not wearing a tux!" was the only protest Spike had made.

In a show of solidarity, Bumblebee had crossed his arms and proclaimed, "Me neither!"

Knowing Jazz and Blaster, this meant that Spike would definitely wind up in a tuxedo at some point, and Bumblebee would at least be stuck with a bow tie.

"Okey dokey," Jazz continued, making a quick note on his data pad. "We got flamboyant an' fabulous, an' we got gruff an' straight-talkin'. Now we just need our perky femme judge."

For a long moment, the two mechs fell uncharacteristically silent. Each of them had just now, for the first time, realized the corner they had backed themselves into by making sure all the femmes wanted to participate as dancers in the competition. Not a single female Autobot currently stationed on Earth, perky or otherwise, was left available to judge.

If it weren't for the stereo system blasting AC/DC at top volume, the silence in the quarters would have stretched for almost a full minute. Then, as if on cue, both mechs hit on the same idea, looked up at each other, and pronounced with utter finality, "Carly."

O.O.O

Somehow, over the next few weeks, everything started falling into place. The training room that had served as a commercial set was now officially converted into an audition hall. The network which had picked up _Dancing with the Autobots_ had procured enough sponsors to make the show a financial success, and, at long last, Prowl had given security clearance to enough camera and sound operators, set riggers, costume technicians and makeup artists to comprise a feasible film crew. Any bumps along the road had been relatively minor and easily remedied.

To promote the show, the hosts and judges, either individually or as a group, had granted numerous magazine requests and had appeared on a total of seven televised interviews, ranging from _Entertainment Tonight_ to _Good Morning America_, though they had specifically avoided an invitation to appear on Hector Ramirez's _Twenty Questions._ Yes, they wanted publicity, but not _that_ kind of publicity. As requested, the judges had all played up their personas to the extreme: Kup sounded like a demented drill sergeant as he kicked his feet up and chomped on a cy-gar during the interviews, Tracks laid on the fabulous flamboyance so thick that he wouldn't live the innuendo down for the next five hundred vorns at least, and Carly was so bubbly that several manufacturers of carbonated beverages offered deals for her to be their next spokesmodel. On the other hand, as the hosts, Spike and Bumblebee didn't want to steal the show, and so by simply being their own charming selves during their interviews, they were quite toned-down in comparison. Either way, the publicity worked. Blaster was tracking an average of thirty-seven new fan sites on the internet each day, and the show hadn't begun airing yet.

In this case, Jazz and Blaster were uncharacteristically avoiding the spotlight. Even though they were the show's co-creators and therefore would have been highly in demand for talk shows and interviews, they kept their lip-plates sealed and would not let their names be publicly connected with the development of the show. Both of them wanted to compete in the all-mech dance squad they were forming, and they rightly felt the voting would be impacted if the audience knew the creators of the show were vying for the top prize.

For the most part, Jazz was very pleased with the progress of his project. But this morning, he had seen something that made him ... well, it was far, far too much to say he was losing his cool. No matter the circumstances, Jazz _never_ lost his cool. But he had noted something that was perhaps cause for a little bit of concern.

"Hot Rod!" Jazz nearly shouted, practically flinging open the sliding doors to Metroplex's monitor hub when they didn't open fast enough for him. But he wasn't losing his cool. No, of course not. Far from it. "I need drama!"

Slumped in a chair and looking bored out of his skull housing, the young mech turned his slightly glazed optics away from the array of security monitors covering the wall. "Really?" Hot Rod asked dully, gesturing at the banks of screens. "Because I could use a little _less_ drama in my life right now."

"Wha-?" Pausing, Jazz shifted mental gears and took a moment to comprehend Hot Rod's situation. "Oh, right. Monitor duty."

"Triple shift," Hot Rod agreed listlessly. "Magnus thinks I was behind the squirrel incident."

"Oh, man," Jazz nodded in sympathy. A few days ago, it seemed that some prankster had gone to the effort of rounding up about two dozen golden-mantled ground squirrels from the desert areas beyond the perimeter of Autobot City, sugared up the little rodents up with candy acquired from the human section of the city, and then turned the hyperactive buggers loose in Ultra Magnus's office.

By the time the City Commander discovered the prank, the furry little whirlwinds had gnawed up everything in his office that was gnawable, shredded everything that was shredable, and piddled on everything else that wasn't. And they steadfastly refused to be caught, by Magnus or anyone else, until Optimus, taking sympathy on his brother, enlisted the nature-loving Hound and Beachcomber to round the little devils up. The benevolent 'Bots, with their natural affinity for animals, somehow convinced the squirrels to calm down and hop into the fabric-lined, treat-filled box they carried. They then proceeded to do some quick, painless genetic testing to track down the proper burrows when returning them to the wild.

Ultra Magnus, however, had not been quite so calm about the whole situation. His furious questioning of all the usual suspects brought him little success; known pranksters Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Air Raid and Bluestreak all, surprisingly, had airtight alibis, and so did their usual accomplices and even the less usual suspects. The only one not able to prove his innocence beyond a reasonable doubt was Hot Rod - mostly because the young mech usually _was_ guilty of having a hand servo in the prank of the day, and so had very little real practice in successfully making his superiors believe when he had nothing to do with it. Unfortunately, this was enough to convince Ultra Magnus that Hot Rod was the perpetrator, and had assigned him a triple shift of monitor duty as punishment.

"I didn't even do it," Hot Rod protested half-heartedly, though the argument was all but useless now. His assignment was two-thirds over already. "Wouldn't mind monitor duty so much if I'd actually done something to deserve it. Anyway, what's got your fuel injectors in a knot?"

"_Dancin' with the Autobots_," Jazz said urgently. "I need your help, man!"

Hot Rod's brow ridge creased faintly at this. "Thought you said everything was taken care of."

"I did, an' it is," Jazz answered, with a slightly manic edge to his voice. "But the film crew is s'posed to get here an' set up an' start filmin' in two days. An' d'you know what I saw just this mornin'?"

"Um?" Hot Rod shrugged helplessly.

"Hotpants an' Bubbles an' Twinkie were all standin' around a monitor, watchin' instructional dance videos," Jazz exclaimed, waving his hands for emphasis, "an' they were all giddy an' excited an' tellin' each other that 'This would be a good dance style for you to try,' an' 'I think you two would be great at this style' an' so on!"

Jazz, of course, was the only mech who had ever dared to give all the femmes silly nicknames and use them regularly, in public anyway. His amazing accomplishment was not simply that he avoided the wrath of the females in doing so, but that they had actually pronounced his nicknames for them 'endearing.' But only when he alone used them. Firestar duly became _Hotpants_ due to her fearless ability to run high-risk rescue missions during fires and high-temperature conditions. Moonracer earned the name _Bubbles_ because of her cheerful personality. Only Jazz and Primus Himself knew why Chromia had been dubbed _Twinkie_; even Chromia had no idea how that had come about. But considering that Jazz hadn't had his aft pounded into the ground over it, apparently she liked it anyway.

Unfortunately, if Jazz expected sympathy towards his current plight, he had clearly failed to make his point well enough for Hot Rod to commiserate with him. "Oooh," the younger mech said after an expectant pause, as if waiting for a punch line that never came. "Autobots helping and encouraging each other? By Primus, the humans might start to think we almost _like_ each other or something!"

"That ain't the point!" Jazz … well, he didn't _yell_. That would be too close to losing his cool. Stopping and deliberately forcing himself to count to a billion (which, with his computerized neuroprocessor set on its lowest clock speed, took exactly three point seven seconds), he calmed down and tried to explain in a more reasonable voice, "You watch enough reality shows to know that they don't get high ratin's by everyone gettin' along all lovey-dovey, right? They thrive on personality conflicts, rivalries, back-stabbin', that kind of stuff. Y'know, drama! But you're right, we do like each other a lot. It ain't easy to drum up those kind of conflicts. So I'm tryin' to get the competitors to play up the extremes for the camera, like our judges do. So far, all I got is Chromia an' Ironhide promisin' to portray themselves as the abrasive, mouthy, don't-take-no-scrap-from-nobody couple."

"In other words," Hot Rod pointed out, turning back to watch the monitors as per his current duty, "they agreed to act like themselves."

"Pretty much," Jazz nodded disconsolately. "Man, I ain't havin' much luck with this. A couple days ago, I tried askin' Hotpants an' Inferno to pretend to be a high-maintenance, bickerin' couple an' maybe make up a few arguments to get into in front of the camera."

Hot Rod shook his head, still observing the multiple video feeds. "Won't work. They've been working together so seamlessly for so long, I don't think they know how to bicker any more."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out," Jazz agreed. "An' then I made the mistake of remindin' Springer an' Arcee to make sure they put a little extra sexy in it, not just their dance routine but the way they interact in front of the camera too, 'cause they're portrayin' the hot young couple, an' I hear sex sells as far as humans are concerned. First thing they did was go online an' research 'How To Sex It Up Like A Human' or somethin'."

Hot Rod cringed visibly, but couldn't hide the grin on his faceplate. "Oh, let me guess. They did it without turning 'Safe Search' on, right?"

Jazz sighed mournfully. "I ain't never gonna hear the end of that one. But I guess I shoulda been careful what I wished for, 'cause this morning, after I saw the gals around the monitor, I heard some laughin' an' dancin' goin' on in the gym, so I thought I'd pop in an' see how everyone's doin'. Well, there was Springer an' Arcee, rehearsin' how to put the sexy in their moves, just like I asked 'em to, but the real problem was, Optimus an' Elita were in there practicin' too. I dunno how long they'd been at it, but by the time I got there, it turned into one of them, y'know, friendly competitions or something, seein' who had the hottest moves. Prime an' Springer were all pelvic action an' macho poses," the Specialist explained, demonstrating exactly what he meant, much to Hot Rod's horror, "an' The Pink Lady an' The Li'l Pink Bulldozer were all wiggles an' shimmies an' Primus knows what else."

_The Pink Lady_ and _The Little Pink Bulldozer_ were Jazz-speak for Arcee and Elita One, respectively.

"And this is a problem, why?" Hot Rod asked curiously. "Doesn't that qualify as drama?"

"OPTIMUS PRIME TRYIN' TO OUT-SEXY ANYONE IS JUST PLAIN WRONG!" That time, Jazz really did shout. Then, upon hearing what he sounded like, he stopped, forced himself to be calm, and gathered the tattered remnants of his cool back around himself.

"Oh, I don't know," Hot Rod said nonchalantly. "I suppose that really depends on one thing."

Mentally counting to a billion again, Jazz asked warily, "Like what?"

Flashing a boyish grin, the younger mech asked, "Was he winning?"

Jazz froze, seething dangerously as he glared energon daggers at the brat in the monitor seat. "Hot Rod, there ain't enough brain-bleach in the world to get that image outta my head."

Hot Rod just chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and turned back to the monitors again. "You did it to yourself, Jazz-man. So, that being said, you got any sort of back-up plan to get your drama?"

"I hear Brawn's been working on his ballet," the Specialist suggested slyly.

"That'll suck," Hot Rod proclaimed calmly. "But I've heard a lot of the guys are gonna audition even though they're terrible and know they don't stand a chance. They're doing it for laughs and a shot at being on the camera. Happens in those human competition shows all the time. And sorry, but bad dancing isn't exactly _drama_. What else you got?"

"Well, I was thinkin' about waitin' until a camera was in Powerglide's mug before someone told him that Hybrid Technologies is one of our sponsors," Jazz said with a slightly evil grin.

Hot Rod showed very little reaction to the name, beyond a vaguely blank stare and a faint, one-shouldered shrug.

"Y'know," Jazz continued after a second of awkward silence, "Hy-Tech? The company owned by Astoria Carlton-Ritz?"

After a beat, Hot Rod's youthful face lit up in recognition. "Oh. That rich human heiress that went all squealing fangirl on Powerglide. Right. Um ... why is that drama?"

"Because Powerglide's auditionin' with Moonracer!" Jazz explained emphatically. "It's totally gonna put P.G. in a majorly awkward position when Astoria sees that! The Pit ain't got no fury like a femme scorned, y'know."

Hot Rod gave a slight chuckle. "Powerglide and Moonracer have been good friends practically since they were protoforms. Very good friends, Jazz. Not a romantic item, so Astoria's got no reason to be jealous and pull her sponsorship or anything."

"You know that, an' I know that," Jazz hinted, "but _Astoria_ don't know that. I still think Powerglide's gonna overreact when he hears it."

"Sorry, Jazz-man, you're grasping straws here," Hot Rod told him with utter certainty. "You need some _real_ drama. Wish I could help."

Unseen by Hot Rod, who was dutifully monitoring the security feeds, Jazz grinned triumphantly. That was just the opening the Specialist had been aiming for when he started this conversation. "Actually," he said conspiratorially, "you _can_ help with some real drama."

A brief flash of panic flickered through the younger mech's bright blue optics, and he not-so-subtly shifted his body language until his posture practically screamed, _Very very busy with monitor duty right now, can't help, nope, not at all... _

"See," Jazz continued, ignoring the nonverbal cues that Hot Rod was shouting at him, "Sunny an' Sides are puttin' together a hip-hop routine. I need you to join their team."

Hot Rod looked like he needed a minute to work out the logic on that one. Failing that, he admitted, "Okay, you lost me. I'm pretty sure I've been showing up for rehearsals for the past couple of weeks, so you're gonna have to excuse me for thinking that meant I was on your squad."

"You are, man, you are!" Jazz assured. "But just for starters, I want to put you on their team."

"Uh ... why?"

Jazz beamed. "So Sunstreaker can kick you off!" He grinned at Hot Rod, watching as the flame-emblazoned 'Bot again tried ineffectively to grasp at any wisp of logic that might have existed in this conversation. "Seriously," he finally explained, "don't blame me. Sideswipe came up with this one. He just wanted a third mech on the team that maybe wasn't so good at dancin', or was a bit of a slacker when it came to rehearsin' or somethin'. Then Sunny could have one of his spectacular hissy fits on camera, an' kick the poor ringer off the team. 'Course, originally they asked Red Alert if he'd be the third dancer, 'cause they were tryin' to keep with a 'Team Lamborghini' theme, but Red kinda got that glitchy look of his just at the suggestion, so they backed off fast. So at that point, I thought of you. You're perfect for it!"

"Okay ... _why_ do I want to do this?" a very bewildered Hot Rod asked.

"DRAMA!" Jazz proclaimed, extravagantly flinging his hands into the air. "Sunny finally gets to tell you off, which he's wanted to do ever since he first got a look at your flashy paint job, an' it seals the twins' rep as arrogant bad boys." With increasingly emphatic gestures, as if he were directing a play that only he could envision, the Specialist continued, "But you? You're gonna be the poor, wronged, innocent victim, who's gonna persevere despite the horrible setback! Your popularity will go through the roof, my man! Fans will be crawlin' out of the weldin' joints!"

Hot Rod grinned at Jazz's enthusiasm, but managed to admonish, "Seems like you're planning and scripting everything. I thought this was supposed to be a _reality_ show."

"Oh, come on, Roddy," Jazz sighed. "You and I both know just how much actual reality makes up a reality show."

"Well, you got me there," Hot Rod admitted with a gesture of concession. "Okay."

"Okay, you'll do it?"

"Okay, I'll do it, if I can get back to finishing off my monitor shift like a good little 'Bot, despite the injustice of it all." Once again, the sporty mech turned back to the banks of monitors.

"You must be bored silly," Jazz mentioned sympathetically. "We ain't heard a peep from the 'Cons for weeks."

"Not since the commercials started airing," Hot Rod observed seriously. "They're planning something."

Jazz nodded. He figured the same thing too. Once the date of the live show had been set, they couldn't help but announce to the world when and where the event was going to be; this not only told the Decepticons exactly where to expect Optimus Prime and the others involved in the competition, but when Autobot City was going to be half-deserted and running on a skeleton crew. Of course the Decepticons would see it as an opportunity to attack. Jazz knew that, and had been preparing for it from the beginning.

"Don't worry, kid," the Specialist assured him. "Prowl and Red Alert, they're workin' overtime on security for the show, an' I heard a rumor that Springer's got himself a highly trained, super-secret, hush-hush, mum's-the-word, crack team that nobody's s'posed to know about an' we're all s'posed to pretend don't exist-"

"The Wreckers?"

"Way to blow my groove, man," Jazz sighed theatrically. "Anyway, yeah. He's gonna have them planted around the stadium, in case anything happens. So you don't you worry about nothin' but dancin', 'kay? Anyway, I gotta roll, there's one last detail I gotta take care of. An' thanks again for helpin' me with the drama."

"No problem," Hot Rod answered with a wave as Jazz turned to leave the room. "Anything for the Jazz-meister."

Jazz grinned to himself as he walked down the hall, feeling confident that the show would have the drama it needed. He was relieved that Hot Rod was willing to play along. The youngster had long since earned himself a reputation as a smart-mouthed trouble-maker, but deep down, he had a truly decent spark and was willing to put the bravado aside to help whenever he was needed. Anyone would count himself lucky to have a friend like Hot Rod.

It was _almost_ enough to make Jazz feel bad about the squirrels.

O.O.O

"Hey! Prowler! There y'are!"

After leaving Hot Rod to the last few hours of his monitor duty, Jazz made the short trip to the _Ark_ in search of the "one last detail he had to take care of" regarding _Dancing with the Autobots._ That last detail involved Prowl, and after a quick search, he found the Police 'Bot deep in the lava tubes that ran through the mountain behind their crashed space ship.

Prowl looked up warily at Jazz's innocent grin and friendly shout of, "Man, with ya hidin' all the way down here, makes me think you're avoidin' me or somethin'."

"Not avoiding," Prowl answered his friend, displaying a data pad and some sort of scanning equipment that the Specialist did not immediately recognize. "Security survey. Just making sure that all the seals we put on the 'back doors' to this place are still holding up. The last thing we need is the Decepticons tampering with them and finding a way in."

"Don't matter if this ain't our main base of operations no more," Jazz agreed. "It's still home. An' that's why we're all glad to have you here on our team. You're the best!"

Not surprisingly, Prowl looked a little uneasy at the compliment. Prowl had an unnaturally keen sense for when Jazz wanted something and was up to his old tricks to get it – which Jazz rather regretfully acknowledged meant that he was getting predictable.

"Well, it's all about paying attention to the details," Prowl answered cautiously, in what was probably supposed to be carefully modulated neutrality.

"Details! Yep, that's what it's all about," Jazz practically beamed, and watched with a perverse sense of enjoyment as the Police 'Bot's expression started to grow at least as paranoid as Red Alert's, if not more so. "There ain't many mechs who can round up the details like you can, no sir."

Prowl backed up a nervous step, his legendary composure starting to show a few hairline cracks as he surreptitiously glanced around for a route of escape. "Um … Jazz?" he asked uncertainly.

"Plus, Prime _did_ order you to assist me with _Dancin' with the Autobots_ in any way I needed," the Specialist pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Jazz ..?" Prowl was no longer the least bit subtle about looking for a bolt-hole, but as his security scan had just verified, all the tubes and tunnels in this area had been thoroughly sealed years ago. The only way out was through Jazz himself.

"An' your kind of attention to them details," Jazz finished cheerfully, shoving a data pad into Prowl's reluctant hands while throwing a friendly arm around his shoulder struts, "is absotively posilutely what the stage manager for the live performance needs!"

"JAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZ!"

O.O.O

The handful of startled Autobots in the command area looked up at the raging scream echoing through the _Ark_. They stared at the walls, the ceiling, even the floor for what seemed like an entire minute, trying to discern its source, but the caverns surrounding the space ship were like a massive echo chamber, making the long, agonizingly drawn-out shout seem like it was coming from everywhere at once.

"Wow," Cliffjumper commented calmly when the roar of fury finally died away. "That had to be Prowl."

Unlike Cliffjumper, Silverbolt appeared a little shaken by the angry bellow. The team leader of the Aerialbots looked down at the red Minibot in confusion. "Prowl? How can you tell?"

"I've only ever heard four mechs who could make Jazz's name sound like a swear word," Cliffjumper shrugged casually, "and the other three are all Decepticons."

O.O.O

Somewhere deep beneath the sparkling waters of the Pacific Ocean, the bridge of the _Victory_ hummed with its usual Decepticon activity. Mechs were busy analyzing data, inspecting weapons systems, maintaining and repairing various pieces of equipment, and generally going about their daily duties.

In Starscream's case, he was looking out one of the crashed vessel's observation ports, having a staring contest with some sort of eerily illuminated aquatic creature that resembled nothing so much as a tiny Sharkitcon, minus the claws. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought it was called an "angler fish."

"Optimus Prime," Starscream heard Megatron mutter over the background noise of work being accomplished, "you are a fool to think you have hidden anything from me."

Shaking his head in annoyance, the Decepticon Air Commander turned away from the observation port. On the other side of the window, the fish flicked its fins and swam away, quite confident it had claimed the victory. "If I may say so once again, _Mighty Megatron_," Starscream addressed their Supreme Leader with more sarcasm than respect, "I don't believe this so-called trophy of the Autobots is what you think -"

"SILENCE!" Megatron roared from in front of the viewscreen, where he had once again been ruminating over tapes of the commercials and promo spots for _Dancing with the Autobots._

Starscream just shrugged. "As you command," he said as he glanced around the bridge, counting how many Decepticons were present. Every one of them had heard him try to point out his doubts about Megatron's desire for the _Dancing with the Autobots_ trophy, and this was the third time he'd publicly registered his misgivings. His opinion was now firmly on the record with at least two dozen witnesses to back him up. It was enough to cause a smug grin to flicker across his faceplate.

"I WILL have that trophy," Megatron said to no one in particular. "I will not be denied!"

"Uh, Mighty Megatron," Ramjet asked, with more respect than Starscream could ever manage, "If I can ask, how are you planning on getting the trophy in the first place? The broadcast says that only Cybertron's finest dancers have the right to claim it."

Megatron gave the Seeker a withering look, and even Starscream very quietly banged his forehead against their crashed spaceship's bulkhead in frustration. Obviously Ramjet was suffering the effects of one too many midair collisions again. How many times did they have to order the blasted idiot to follow through with a little routine maintenance?

"Ah, of course," Megatron said with deeply biting sarcasm that somehow bounced right off Ramjet's cone-shaped head. "How silly of me. Aerial attacks and frontal assaults are useless! I must _dance_ for the trophy." Giving a mocking bow to an imaginary partner, he continued, "Fetch me Nightbird as my partner, and she and I shall gloriously waltz the trophy right out from beneath the Autobots' olfactory housings!"

Behind Megatron's back, Starscream traded glances with Soundwave, and together they briefly cast their optics skyward, silently commiserating on how they had to suffer fools like Ramjet.

Mechs like Starscream and Soundwave were intelligent and experienced enough to know when Megatron was being sarcastic. Mechs like Ramjet, Skywarp, and a handful of others who overheard this conversation, not so much. Unbeknownst to Megatron, Starscream, or anyone else until it was far, far too late, several of them took their leader's acerbic comment to be a literal order.

O.O.O

Within they hour, this hastily thrown-together Decepticon team departed on what they felt was an important mission to track down Dr. Fujiyama, and through him, his creation: Nightbird, the uncontrollable female Ninja-bot that had nearly wiped out over twenty Autobots before being deactivated and ultimately put in storage by her maker. Though she was the invention of a paltry human and therefore not Cybertronian, not a Transformer, and only a she-bot, she had impressed most of the Decepticons (Starscream, as always, being the major exception) with her deadly assassin skills, and had seemed ever so slightly ... _attached_ to Megatron at the time.

Dr. Fujiyama himself did not crack and reveal Nightbird's location when the small group of Decepticons tried to intimidate him with some rather creative threats to various bits of his anatomy, however, one of his younger assistants did. Though they were rather disappointed with the assistant's cooperation because it meant that they didn't get the fun of squishing a few annoying fleshlings today, the Decepticons felt their mission was paramount and only tarried a few nanokliks to cause a little malicious, unwarranted damage before departing to retrieve Nightbird from the secret storage facility.

"Nightbird!" Ramjet proclaimed importantly when Bombshell had fully reactivated the berserk Ninja-bot's brain chip. "The Decepticons have brought you out of stasis so you can help us claim the top prize in a dancing competition-"

Nightbird scowled darkly before Ramjet could finish.

After that, things did not go well for any of the Decepticons involved.

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 5 ..._


	5. Auditions

_**Dancing With The Autobots**_

Chapter 5: Auditions - Part I

O.O.O

A little more than three weeks later, all optics in the Decepticon command center were glued to the viewscreen. The only time any gazes ever strayed from the human programming was when an impatient individual here or there cast an irritated glance at the chronometer which was set to display the current local Earth time. According to the broadcast schedule the humans had published – and the Decepticons tended to sneeringly dismiss the possibility of human scheduling systems ever being totally accurate – the first episode of _Dancing with the Autobots _would begin to air in a little less than a breem.

With a brooding Megatron at the forefront of the crowd, the Decepticons refrained from making any lewd comments or rude speculations regarding what they were about to see. Instead, they all stood or sat in nearly identical postures of mild disgust, with arms crossed belligerently and scowls of distaste on the faceplates that were not obscured by protective masks.

There was not a single Decepticon in the room who would even consider the possibility that such a pandering debacle as the Autobots were about to present could have even the remotest bit of merit. Of those present, some were there to glean what intelligence and information they could from the broadcast. The rest were there just to have a nasty laugh at their enemies' expense.

O.O.O

Scenes somewhat similar to the one on the Decepticon bridge were forming throughout the Autobot territories, but none so large as in the main rec room in Metroplex. Like the Decepticons, the Autobots crowded in front of the big-screen monitors, impatient for the show to start. However, while the Decepticons were the very image of disdain, Autobots everywhere were a rowdy, laughing picture of happy camaraderie.

Currently well into the third week of filming, the Autobots already knew how this first episode was going to turn out. In fact, it was common knowledge which seven acts had made it through auditions and had been selected as competitors, and that the semifinalists, working with their human dance instructors, were well on their way into polishing their routines for the final, live performance. But that in no way diminished anyone's excitement, here and now, at watching the televised, edited production of the first round of auditions.

'Bots were overcrowded onto the multitude of mismatched chairs and sofas cramming the room, with servos kicked up on every table and foot rest in sight, or else they were sitting or lying on the floor like excited children about to watch their favorite Saturday morning cartoon. No matter where one turned, there was a great deal of friendly jostling and jockeying for the best viewing position. In the back of the crowd, the overly large Skyfire had the much smaller Cliffjumper and Wheelie perched on his shoulders. Chromia, calmly and logically pointing out her willingness to "sacrifice her comfort to offer a seat to Groove," was shamelessly sitting on Ironhide's lap.

In the interest of opening up some extra seats in the crowded rec room, a few had even transformed and tried to watch in vehicle mode, however, in ten nanokliks or less, they all found themselves being used as improvised foot rests, so that was the end of that.

At the front of all this friendly chaos, a small space had been carefully reserved for the Witwicky family, including pajama-clad Daniel, who had been allowed to stay up past his normal bedtime just to watch Mom and Dad and all his Autobot friends on TV. Bumblebee was the only non-human allowed in this otherwise 'Bot-free safety zone, and he was lying on the floor, elbows propped up and chin resting on hands to watch the screen, in an almost mirror-image of little Danny's childish pose.

Platters of energon goodies and beverage cylinders of gasoline, diesel, and jet fuel were passed, or tossed, back and forth, accompanied by all the rowdy excitement that humans showed at Superbowl parties. At one point, Hound was about to hand a fuel cylinder to Optimus, when Sideswipe dove in from out of nowhere to snatch the container out of the very startled Hound's hand with hasty and completely incoherent apologies. Optimus was fairly certain this odd behavior meant the Lamborghini twins had been distilling their less-than-entirely-legal high-test again, and he'd very nearly inadvertently gotten his hands on the evidence. However, he was in a good enough mood that he decided not to say anything about it. For now.

With only a few minutes to go before showtime, the program's co-creators made their grand entrance into the rec room. While they had publicly kept quiet about their major behind-the-scenes roles, here amongst friends, Jazz and Blaster were playing the high-style up to the max. Each of them strutted into the room like an A-list celebrity, with gold plastic chains and other obviously fake bling draped around their necks, and with beautiful, smiling fembots hanging off each arm. The ladies – all sparkling from fresh paint jobs they'd gotten when filming began - were doing their best to look the part of vacuous, bubble-headed supermodels. Most of them were failing miserably at the vacuous and bubble-headed parts, though for whatever reason, Moonracer had the expression down to an art form. Either way, the two grinning stars of the scene projected the image of Hollywood royalty, soaking up the thunderous round of spontaneous applause at their entrance.

"Thank you, thank you!" Jazz crowed when the appreciative clapping died down to a manageable level. He sounded like he was already making his Emmy Awards acceptance speech. "An' no autographs, please. Well, everyone, we've driven a long road to get to where we are tonight, an' me an' Blaster just wanna thank everyone for puttin' so much effort into makin' this silly li'l dream of ours come true. So let's all kick back an' enjoy!"

There came another round of applause, and Jazz turned to the ladies he had on his arms – Elita and Moonracer – and gave each of them a quick peck on the cheek, while Blaster did the same to Firestar and Arcee. As Jazz and Blaster went to their reserved seats of honor, the femmes, who had willingly participated in the goofy celebrity act from the beginning, quietly separated to find seats next to their favorite mechs.

With the already limited seating, these last few additions made it even more crowded. The couch that Inferno sat on was already filled to capacity by Red Alert and Ratchet, but this didn't deter Firestar. Before the three surprised mechs even knew what was happening, she was comfortably lounging across their laps as if they'd all suddenly become a part of the furniture themselves. Moonracer wasn't quite so bold, and ended up perched precariously on the arm of the couch where Powerglide sat. This led to some whispered wagers in the back of the room as to how long it would take before she slipped off and landed on her aft. Arcee made the mistake of trying to claim her usual spot between Springer and Hot Rod, which required so much wedging herself into such a tight place on the overcrowded couch that when she finally made herself fit, it was with such force and vigor that her petite little self abruptly disappeared almost entirely between the two larger mechs and halfway into the couch's padding. Hot Rod and Springer, of course, immediately locked shoulders and somehow managed to be of absolutely no assistance whatsoever as she attempted to fight her way out of her predicament.

On the other hand, the crowd of mechs parted like the Red Sea at Elita One's approach, and she found a queenly seat next to Optimus with no difficulty whatsoever. Settling herself and accepting a fuel cylinder that was handed to her, she glanced around at the audience, noticed who was not present, and asked, "Where's Magnus?"

"Watching from the Command Center," Optimus answered. "You know Magnus. He wanted to make sure that someone remained on duty while we-"

"YAIIEEAAUUGHH!"

All optics quickly turned at the startled screech. True to his name, Springer had abruptly sprung several lengths across the room and was looking very, very shocked. Arcee, in comparison, was now sitting primly and comfortably with a very self-satisfied little smile on her faceplate, while Hot Rod, and next to him, Blurr, were howling like lunatics and nearly sliding to the floor in their hysterics.

Whatever it was that she had grabbed or poked, Arcee clearly knew the exact spot to get Springer to leave the couch in a hurry. The room erupted into a roar of laughter and clapping.

"SHUSH!" someone suddenly shouted. Over the general din of the room, it was nearly impossible to tell who. "It's starting!"

"It's starting!" someone else yelled back.

"Quiet!"

"SHHH!"

"Pass me the energon goodies!"

"Shut up!"

"Hey - who backfired?"

"SHHH!"

"Quiet!"

"Shut up already!"

The audience got settled and general silence fell just in time, as the last pre-show commercial faded to black.

O.O.O

"Silence!" Megatron shouted. "This farce is about to begin."

It was interesting to note that other than the very faint hiss of Soundwave's recording system, none of the Decepticons had been making a sound at the time. Apparently, even Megatron found some habits hard to break.

O.O.O

Daylight faded into the image on the screen, illuminating the massive ramp that comprised the main thoroughfare into Metroplex. The camera panned in close, revealing a relatively small, yellow Autobot sitting at the base of the ramp, and a human male wearing a brown blazer over a tan shirt and tie standing just a couple paces up. This neat bit of staging put the two of them roughly at the same height for the camera.

"Hello!" Bumblebee addressed the camera cheerfully. "Greetings to Earth and Cybertron, and to the rest of the universe, _bah-wheep graaagnah wheep ni ni bong_!"

"Welcome to_ Dancing with the Autobots_!" Spike continued. "I'm your host, Ambassador Samuel James Witwicky."

"But we all call him Spike," Bumblebee chimed in. "And I'm your host, Autobot Bumblebee."

"And we only call him that because no one can pronounce his Cybertonian name without a digital synthesizer for a voice box," Spike quipped easily. "Tonight begins the first round of auditions for the new show, _Dancing with the Autobots_. All over Metroplex here in Oregon, Autobots of every description are lining up for a chance to strut their stuff in front of our panel of judges, and maybe earn a place in the finals, five weeks from tonight. But before we meet our contest hopefuls and see how the auditions are going, let's go learn a little more about our special presentation, and what the dancers are competing for." Turning to Bumblebee, he asked, "Shall we?"

"Sure!" Bumblebee agreed, then stood up and transformed into his vehicle mode. With a wave to the camera, Spike climbed into the driver's seat, and Bumblebee drove up the ramp and into Metroplex's massive entryway.

O.O.O

In the rec room, during this momentary pause, Optimus commented approvingly, "I realize we're only a few seconds into it, but it looks good so far."

"Thanks!" Spike and Bumblebee said in cheerful unison, never turning away from the viewscreen.

O.O.O

Onscreen, Spike and Bumblebee were now in a room that was a part of Metroplex's museum of pre-war Autobot artifacts. Soft overhead lighting fell on a white-enameled display table, illuminating a golden statue that was at least twice as tall as the human, and probably equal in height to the little Minibot himself.

"The Iacon Trophy!" Bumblebee announced to the camera, with a gesture towards the sculpture that Grapple had created. "This will be awarded to the Autobots who best learn and perform a dance style – any style – for our judges and for you, our viewing and voting audience. The competitors are free to choose anything from ballroom to breakdance, but mostly, you'll see them performing different modes of dancing from Earth. To be honest, there hasn't been much dancing on Cybertron since the era of these artifacts around us." Bumblebee gestured to the displays in the museum, a few of which were shown in a quick camera montage. "This was the Golden Age of Cybertron, which ended over a hundred thousand vorns ago - that's about nine million Earth years. There are very few Autobots now who are old enough to remember how we used to dance back then. A great deal of knowledge of our own culture has been lost forever. But how lucky we Autobots are to have the beautiful new cultures of Earth all around us."

"Music and dance, as you all know, are phenomena that occur in nearly every society we've encountered in our galaxy," Spike continued, picking up Bumblebee's narrative smoothly. "Fortunately, as we've seen over the last twenty years, the Autobots are eager to embrace new cultures, and have demonstrated, time and time again, their willingness to find a way to assimilate themselves into all aspects of our society."

"You want an example? You haven't lived until you've seen Optimus Prime shooting hoops in a basketball game," Bumblebee interjected with a sly smile, as if he were announcing a shocking secret to the world.

The video cut to a famous archival clip of Optimus Prime making a slam dunk over the heads of several other Autobots, from a fund-raising game they'd played for charity a few years prior. He was then promptly tackled by Grimlock, who had clearly gotten his games confused again.

"Heck, I'm the one who taught him how to play in the first place," Spike bantered as the camera came back to them. "If you ever want to get a clear picture in your head of how invincible teenagers think they are, just imagine a sixteen year-old kid showing a forty foot tall robot how to make a jump shot." The casual ease with which he always chatted with Bumblebee shone through beautifully in their on-camera interaction now, which was exactly what the creators of the show had been hoping for all along. "So, in the spirit of bringing Earth and Cybertonian culture together, _Dancing with the Autobots_ was born, and instead of one crazy kid teaching basketball to someone seven times his size, we'll be watching seven professional human dance instructors teaching our finalists the dance style of their choice."

"But first," Bumblebee picked up the narrative, "our competitors have to earn that right by passing our first round of auditions. Now, it may seem crazy that the contestants have to successfully dance to prove that they deserve the chance to be taught how to dance, right? Well, that's not what our judges are looking for right now. In these rounds of auditions, what they're hoping to find are the Autobots who display a natural rhythm, a certain amount of grace, and a little pinch of showmanship." Pantomiming 'a little pinch' for the camera, he explained, "In other words, the professional dance instructors want a bit of raw talent that they can whip into shape over the course of a few short weeks."

"And we're going to find out how that's coming along," Spike finished, "right after this word from our sponsors."

The image faded out on their charmingly smiling faces and into an image of an Autobot symbol with the glittering, rotating Iacon Trophy in front of it. "_Dancing With the Autobots_ will return in a moment," the announcer recited, and the image trailed into a commercial for Meguiar's Fine Car Care and Detailing Products.

O.O.O

After a few minutes of commercials, during which the Autobots joked and laughed and passed around the energon goodies and plasma bytes, and the Decepticons sneered and mocked and swilled cheap-grade ethanol (except for a privileged few to whom Mixmaster granted access to his 'special' concoctions), the show came back on with a long pan of a line of Autobots queued up at the doors of a training gymnasium. Some of them were bouncing energetically on their tarsal plates, practicing a few dance moves as they waited, while others leaned nonchalantly against the wall or gabbed with their neighbors. Some of them were wearing rather … _interesting_ costumes of all varieties. All of them had numbered cards taped to their chestplates, representing the slots they had drawn on the tryout roster.

Spike, alone, came into the view of the camera. "Hi!" he said on cue. "Ambassador Witwicky here again – but you can call me Spike. We're back with _Dancing with the Autobots_, and here with me now are some of our contest hopefuls. Let's have a word with a few of them. Hi there," he said to a tough-looking, military green and orange Minibot, labeled #16, who was watching the whole scene with a casual sort of machisimo. "Why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself to our audience?"

"Yo, name's Brawn," the Minibot answered with a lazy salute. The tough-guy image he exuded was nothing short of incredible, considering that he was, in fact, wearing a fluffy, white tutu.

Primus only knew where he'd gotten a tutu that fit him.

"Well, Brawn," Spike continued with an admirably straight face and not even a hint of a quaver in his voice, "what are you going to present to our judges today?"

"Me and Huffer are gonna dance a duet from _Swan Lake_," Brawn answered. "That's a ballet, in case ya didn't know."

"I see," Spike answered evenly. "And which role will you be portraying?"

"Gonna dance the part of Princess Odette," Brawn answered. He pronounced it 'Odettey.'

"Ah. Well, good luck to you," Spike said with a nod, and moved down the line a bit.

O.O.O

In Metroplex's rec room, Spike turned around to face the enthralled audience. "Took us eight tries to get that scene," he explained. "Eventually we had to leave Bumblebee out of it altogether, because he couldn't stop giggling!"

As a matter of fact, the little Autobot in question was giggling even now. His hands were clamped over his mouthplates, trying unsuccessfully to muffle the uncontrollable sounds bubbling from his vocal synthesizer, and his shoulder struts were shaking visibly from the effort. In between it all, he could just barely be heard spluttering the word, "_Tutu!_"

All optics then turned to Brawn, who looked completely unfazed by everything that had just happened onscreen. "You got brass lugnuts, buddy," Ironhide informed him with a certain amount of admiration.

"Figure if I was gonna be bad," Brawn answered as philosophically as possible, "why not just go ahead and be really awful? It got me screen time, didn't it?"

O.O.O

On the show, Spike quickly went through a couple more mini-interviews. One was with a blindingly psychedelically-painted 'Bot - it turned out to be Beachcomber under all those day-glo colors - who claimed to be the Disco King, man. In one of the more puzzling moments in a show full of head-scratchers, the next interviewee was Broadside, with several dozen yards of plaid fabric wrapped around his waist, claiming he was going to dance the Highland Fling.

"Well, the excitement's clearly building," Spike told the camera. "But before we check in with our judges, let's drop in on a few rehearsals and see if we can see some of the routines our contest hopefuls are going to present."

The scene cut to the entrance of one of the smaller gymnasiums, where Bumblebee was already waiting as Spike appeared in the picture. From inside the gym came the sound of raised voices, and those voices were definitely not raised in laughter or merriment.

"Hey, Bumblebee, what's going on?" Spike asked in mild concern. Other than the Autobots who were in on the production from the beginning, most of the viewing audience would never suspect that he already knew the answer to his own question.

"Well, some of the dancers, um," Bumblebee hedged, "let's just say they're still working out some of the details." He looked appropriately nervous, and seemed to be subtly blocking the camera crew from the door. "Maybe we shouldn't bother them."

"Nah, let's check it out!" Spike countered cheerfully, and Bumblebee let him push past and key in a code to open the sliding double door.

"...CAN'T PAY MORE SLAGGING ATTENTION TO WHAT YOU'RE DOING, THEN I WILL PERSONALLY SHOVE YOUR USELESS CRANIUM UP YOUR OWN SLAGGING TAILPIPE!"

Both hosts reeled slightly as the raised voices turned into crystal clear words as the doors opened. Bumblebee looked particularly shocked at the choice vocabulary being hurled about by a bright yellow and chromed mech, but the language was not bleeped out since the humans in the network's editing room hadn't actually known what Cybertonian swear words sounded like.

"WELL, KEEP YOUR SLAGGING FOOT SERVOS OUT OF MY WAY AND I WON'T STEP ON THEM!" a flame-emblazoned mech shouted back just as furiously.

"TRY SHOWING UP FOR PRACTICE NEXT TIME!" a third mech, this one mostly candy-apple red, added to the argument. "THEN MAYBE YOU'D BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN SLAGGING FOOT SERVOS HIT THEIR MARK!"

Looking first at Spike, then at the camera, Bumblebee said dryly, "Well, now."

"Okay, let's try this again," the red mech, Sideswipe, said after the trio of dancers had seethed dramatically for a moment.

"Fine," Sunstreaker snarled.

"Whatever," Hot Rod snapped back.

"Music," Sideswipe ordered, and immediately, something techno and catchy and far too loud to identify came blaring over the gymnasium's sound system.

"Okay, five, six, seven, go!" Sideswipe counted, and the three of them launched into what appeared to be a coordinated hip-hop routine. It only lasted about ten beats before something went wrong. It was hard to tell who actually made the mistake, but someone turned in the wrong direction, and Sunstreaker and Hot Rod ended up crashing into one another.

"THAT IS IT!" Sunstreaker shrieked, waving his arms in the air in wild frustration. "I HAVE HAD IT! I CAN'T WORK WITH THIS SLAGGING IDIOT!"

"I'M NOT THE ONE WHO-" Hot Rod began, but Sunstreaker quickly cut him off.

"I DON'T CARE!" Sunstreaker screamed furiously. "DO I LOOK LIKE I CARE? BECAUSE I DON'T! I CAN'T WORK WITH YOU, YOU CLUMSY, OBSOLETE, UNDER-CHARGED PIECE OF SCRAP!

"Oh, Primus!" Sideswipe suddenly exclaimed, studying his twin brother intently. "Sunny, LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO YOUR PAINT JOB!"

"I ... my wha-?" Sunstreaker gasped, staring down at his chest to where Sideswipe pointed. The camera couldn't quite detect that there wasn't so much as a scratch. Nonetheless, Sunstreaker reacted as if he'd sustained the worst chassis damage in the history of the automobile. "You ... you ... my ... YOU SON OF A GLITCH!" he spluttered, gesturing wildly, quite convincing in his near-incoherence. He charged at Hot Rod, fists raised, but violence was prevented by Sideswipe, who literally threw himself between the two of them and physically restrained his brother. "THIS PAINT IS ... YOU... IT ... GAH! THAT'S IT, YOU WORTHLESS, FOUR-CYLINDER CARGO SLED! GET OFF MY TEAM! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR UGLY FACEPLATE HERE AGAIN!"

For a moment, Hot Rod looked like he was going to erupt as violently as Sunstreaker, but then he put on an admirable show of restraining himself. "Fine," he spat coldly, fists clenched so tightly that the joints in his fingers squealed from the stress. "Screw your nuts with a torque wrench, you crankcase brain! I'm outta here." Whirling on his heel plate, the hot-tempered young mech exited the gymnasium with dramatic fury. On the way out, he made a strange motion of the finger servos towards the twins, which did not get censored because the humans in the editing room hadn't known what rude Cybertonian hand gestures looked like, either.

The camera lingered on the fuming twins for a moment longer, before Spike began with a polite, "Excuse me?"

Instantly, the Lamborghini brothers whirled on their hosts, looking no calmer than they had at the height of the screaming. "What?" Sideswipe demanded furiously.

"Uh, nothing, nothing at all," Bumblebee quickly babbled, grabbing Spike by the shoulder and steering him unceremoniously towards the door. "Just wanted to wish you good luck on your routine, that's it, and we're going to go check out the judging, bye now!"

O.O.O

On board the _Victory_, the Decepticons laughed so hard that some of their vocal synthesizers actually overmodulated and shorted out. Those idiot Autobots having a foul-mouthed shouting match was the highlight of their day, week, and month.

"Those 'Bots sound just like you guys, Drag Strip!" Blitzwing mocked the Stunticons. "Must be a car thing."

Drag Strip took the ribbing in his signature style. "Want your tank barrel shoved up your afterburner, Blitzwing?" he offered dangerously.

"They sound more like the chatter from those conehead Seekers," Thundercracker interrupted before Blitzwing could make his reply.

"Hey, you're a Seeker too, Thundercracker!" Dirge felt obliged to point out.

"Yeah," Thundercracker agreed patronizingly, "but not a _coneheaded_ one, Dirge."

"SILENCE!"

Megatron's furious command was only moderately successful; though the Decepticons immediately stopped bantering and shouting back and forth, there was still a great deal of snickering that simply could not be stifled.

Sadly, only about six Decepticons ever caught on to the fact that the whole scene that amused them so much had been entirely scripted and staged in the first place.

O.O.O

In Metroplex's rec room, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were loudly congratulating themselves on stirring up so much drama barely ten minutes into the series. "That looked great, bro!" Sideswipe cheered, aiming a friendly slap at his twin's back. "We really-"

_WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! _

Startled enough to flinch visibly, Sideswipe just stared at his twin, who refused to look embarrassed despite several blunt demands for quiet. He quickly removed his hand from his brother's shoulder, but the screeching that had begun from the impact of his original slap did not cease. "You have got to be kidding me," Sideswipe muttered, to this day remaining in awe of Sunstreaker's sociopathic tendencies.

_WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! _

"Sunstreaker!" Prowl barked. "You know the rules! No car alarms indoors!"

"Eh, whatever," Sunstreaker snapped back.

"Sunstreaker -"

"The next Autobot who drowns out the audio of the show will report to Ultra Magnus's office at 0500 hours tomorrow," Optimus interrupted calmly. "That includes you, Prowl."

It worked. Optimus's simple statement shut the Autobots up far more quickly than Megatron's worst shouting could ever silence the Decepticons - and Prime hadn't even needed to say what it was they'd be reporting for.

O.O.O

Onscreen, the camera followed Spike and Bumblebee into the main gymnasium, which was hardly recognizable as the training arena it was originally intended to be. A raised stage, curtained with half a mile of blue velvet, had been built at one end, and much of the rest of the room had been overcome by rows of stadium-type seating. Hopeful contestants mingled with enthusiastic audience members on these Autobot-sized bleachers.

Facing the stage was a slightly raised dias, on which two Autobots and one human sat behind an elegantly draped table. They were taking notes on the computers before them, and at the same time seemed to have just finished critiquing the last act to have auditioned.

"... so if you remember this simple little tip of counting one, two, three, four, over and over - it's real easy - you guys might actually have a hope of developing a sense of rhythm," Kup could just be heard saying to Pipes, Cosmos, and Outback. Then the three dancers took a final bow, to the scattered applause of the audience, and exited the stage.

To the left of the judges, the space shuttle-sized Sky Lynx lounged with the superior air of a pride lion on the Serengeti, taking up far more floor space than was entirely convenient. Though he had not been selected as a judge, he seemed to have positioned himself so that he could set forth the importance of his opinion whenever he felt like it.

"So here we are in the midst of auditions," Bumblebee told the viewing audience as they strode through the bleacher aisle and towards the dias. "And let's take a moment to meet our judges. Hi, everyone," he called, bringing the judges' attention to the camera. "Let me introduce you all. On the end closest to us is Tracks."

The sleek blue Autobot was so into his onscreen persona that, much to everyone's surprise, he actually blew a kiss at the camera.

"This is Kup, short for picKUP truck, and nobody knows if that's his real name or not," Bumblebee quipped as Kup leaned back in his chair and casually saluted by tapping his cy-gar to his forehead. "And this is one of our human friends who has achieved the status of honorary Autobot," Bumblebee finished, "Dr. Carly Witwicky."

"Who also happens to be my lovely wife," Spike added with a wink at the camera.

"They met because of me," Bumblebee interjected with a cute little grin. "I take full credit for their marriage."

"And yet he never baby-sits our son," Spike lamented, casting his eyes Heavenward. Turning to the judges, he asked, "So, lady and gentlebots, how are auditions going so far?"

"Fabulous!" Tracks beamed.

"I've survived worse," Kup growled.

"It's all very exciting!" Carly bubbled.

"Have you found anyone you think is worthy of a call back for a second round of auditions yet?" Bumblebee asked, which brought a disparaging snort from Kup.

"Are you kidding?" the old warhorse asked. "This is worse than sorting through a barrel of shattered glass to try to find one little diamond!"

"Oh, it's not that bad," Carly scolded cheerfully. "Why, just a few minutes ago, Inferno and Firestar did a wonderfully energetic Quickstep. That's a complicated dance to have pulled off with so little formal training." As she spoke, the scene cut to a brief snippet of the partnered emergency rescue workers dancing across the stage with far more speed and intricacy than anyone would have thought possible from someone whose alt-mode was a cumbersome fire truck.

"And it was very nice to see Wreck-Gar and his lovely lady friend Nancy fly all the way in from the Planet of Junk to audition," Tracks added as the camera came back to them.

A vague frown crossed Kup's already gruff expression. "Nancy? I thought her name was Pancho."

"And I thought I heard Wreck-Gar call her Mrs. Cleaver," Carly added to the confusion. "Well, whatever her name, they were inspired by a PBS broadcast of _Riverdance_, and brought along a chorus line of Junkion back-up dancers to all give their best shot at Irish step-dancing."

"How did they do?" Spike asked.

"Eh," Kup answered as he chewed the end of his cy-gar. "I guess they started okay, but about halfway through, they fell apart."

"You mean they lost their places in the routine and messed up the steps?" Spike asked for clarification.

"No, he means _they_ fell apart, poor darlings," Tracks explained. "Irish dancing is so physically demanding. We had Junkion body parts flying everywhere. Just terrible. Of course, with a disaster such as that, we had to disqualify them."

At that comment, the scene cut to another snippet, this one of Wreck-Gar being escorted off by two stage hands in the form of Hot Spot and Streetwise. Between them, the Junkion leader was hopping along on his right foot while brandishing his detached left leg like a weapon, shouting, "Nobody puts Nancy in the corner!" in his quirky 'teevee talk.'

"I see," Spike commented neutrally as the camera cut back to them. "So, who's up next?"

"Well," Tracks answered, consulting the computer on the table before him, "it looks like ..." He glanced up at the stage in horror. "Oh, dear."

"Aw, slag!" Kup grumbled.

Slag was right. Slag, and the rest of the Dinobots as well, had just lumbered onto the stage. All of them were in their humanoid modes, for a change. Each wore a glossy black top hat and had what appeared to be gigantic white spats wrapped around their enormous ankles.

"Well," Carly attempted, but it seemed like some of the bubbles in her voice were popping even as she spoke, "this should be entertaining."

"We the Tap-Dancing Dinobots!" Grimlock announced, obviously quite proud of the cleverness of the title. He had a placard bearing the inscription #12 taped to his chest plate. It was upside-down. "Me Grimlock know all about dancing!"

"Oh, dear," Carly echoed Tracks's sentiment.

"Me Grimlock say hit it!"

Sludge shrugged and immediately clobbered Snarl, who spun halfway around from the impact.

"No, no, NO! Me Grimlock not say hit HIM, me Grimlock say hit IT!"

"Me Snarl get to hit him Sludge back!" the stegosaurus demanded irritably after popping his jaw hinges back into place. "Only fair!"

"Me Slag want to hit something too!"

Tracks groaned and hid his faceplate behind his hands.

"NO!" Grimlock stomped his foot to get everyone's attention, while in the background, Swoop, the relatively smart one, quietly gave the judges a _see-what-I-have-to-live-with_ expression. "Me Grimlock say everyone hit everyone else AFTER dancing!"

"Me Swoop staying out of this one," the pterodactyl announced firmly, crossing his arms with finality. This was a surprising amount of wisdom, coming from a Dinobot. Other than that, and a few irritated grumbles from the others, there was no further discussion of the matter.

"Now, Dinobots show clumsy Autobots how dancing really done!" Grimlock instructed, and the others shuffled around in an attempt to remember their marks. A wry laugh from beside the judges caught their attention, distracting them from what they were doing. Sky Lynx had chosen the moment to insert his unsolicited opinion.

"Despite your claims," he said, ignoring the pointed scowls from the three judges and two hosts, "I find it highly unlikely that five unrefined behemoths such as yourselves would be able to complete a simple routine without utterly demolishing the stadium in the process."

Grimlock considered that one for a moment, trying to work out if he'd been insulted or not, then brightened as he came to entirely the wrong conclusion. "Me Grimlock think Dinobots know how to bring down the house, too! Dinobots," he ordered, choosing his words a little more carefully this time, "dance!"

If there was music playing, the noise made by five hulking Dinobots attempting to tap dance drowned it out completely. The room began to shake. The audience began to evacuate. Carly looked about ready to join them. A large chunk of tile rattled loose and fell from the ceiling, smacking the haughty Sky Lynx squarely on the nosecone.

"That comment was in no way meant to be an endorsement," Sky Lynx sighed as the destruction continued, "nor was it meant to be interpreted quite so literally."

"Stop! Stop it! We can't have this!" Tracks shrieked, jumping out of his chair and waving his arms frantically.

"NO!" Kup yelled firmly at the same time. "Grimlock! Sludge! All of you, OFF THE STAGE! NO MORE DANCING!"

There was a sudden silence from the Dinobots, who took a moment to comprehend what they'd just been told, then, in typical Dinobot fashion, parlayed their disbelief into the only reaction they really knew. Four of them transformed with primitive, furious roars, though Swoop hung back, obviously trying to decide whether humanoid or pterodactyl mode would be more intimidating in this close-quarters situation.

"You no like us Dinobots?" Grimlock demanded as the others stomped dangerously towards the judges. "Well, us Dinobots no like YOU!"

Kup was on his feet and leaping over the table towards the Dinobots in a nanoklik. Tracks made what appeared to be a nervous step or two in the direction of the nearest escape route, though if the camera had focused on him more closely, the audience might have seen that he was surreptitiously interposing himself between the rampaging Dinobots and the essentially defenseless Carly.

But the focus was on Kup as he stomped towards the Dinobots with equal bluster. "All of you, just stop it, right now!" he ordered. "Now sit! Stay! You guys aren't going beyond this round of auditions, but let me tell you a little story that will explain why."

For whatever reason, the Dinobots had adored Kup from the moment he'd first stepped off the shuttlecraft and onto Earth. Unfathomably, this meant they respected and obeyed his orders and, even more inexplicably, tended to follow him around like excited puppies waiting to hear yet another of his endless war stories. There was a chorus of metallic clunks as they all sat on their rumps to listen raptly, their fury of a moment ago now completely forgotten.

"Kup tell story?" Sludge asked with all the wonder of a toddler.

"Yeah, I'll tell you a story," Kup agreed, sitting cross-legged among them and gnawing on the end of his cy-gar for a thoughtful moment. "And I want you to think about it real hard, okay? Because the moral of the story applies to you guys, all right?"

This got him a round of saurian head-nodding, though some were enthusiastic and others were a bit more dubious.

"See, there was this time back on ... on ... Heliotrex, I think it was," Kup reminisced. "There was a local musket-laser shooting competition that I wanted to enter. I knew I could take the top prize without even straining a piston. I was the best of the best at musket shooting. Better than anyone. Still am," he added with a chuckle.

"Nobody better at musket-laser shooting than you Kup," Swoop agreed, which was actually true, though not in the way the Dinobot intended. No one besides Kup bothered to use the antiquated weapon these days, so Kup's supremacy was entirely by default.

"Thanks," Kup grinned. "But see, when I got to the competition, the judges wouldn't even let me enter!"

The Dinobots all gasped in collective shock. "Why?" Slag demanded angrily. "You Kup better than anyone!"

"Well, yeah, that's what they said," Kup agreed, which earned him five baffled looks. "See, what the officials told me was that I was _too_ good. This was supposed to be an amateur competition, they said. You know, fun for everyone. They figured that having a pro like me mop the floor with all the other competitors was no good for the game. There'd be no excitement for the audience, 'cause they'd already see who was the clear winner, and no real competition for the other contestants because they'd all know they were beat before they even started. Heck, they figured the other competitors would all drop out because it would scare them away when they saw my name. So that's why they told me not to compete. I was too good, and it would ruin the game for everyone else. And maybe," Kup concluded with a generous gesture of his cy-gar, "if you think about it, maybe that's the same reason why I'm telling you guys that you can't dance in this competition. Understand?"

The Dinobots made a silly set of faces as they concentrated very hard and tried to comprehend what Kup had just told them. Finally, Grimlock ventured, "You Kup ... think Dinobots so good, we scare away other dancers?"

"Oh, you'll scare away the other dancers, all right," Kup heartily agreed. "So, you've all shown us what you've got. Now, if you pack it in and go home, guys, even though I don't have a trophy to give you, I'll make sure you all get an extra energon cube just for trying out. Okay? We good?"

"We good!" Grimlock announced happily. "We TOO good! Dinobots," he ordered, as all of them climbed ponderously to their feet and exited, stage left, "we all go laugh at clumsy Autobots trying to dance not so good like Dinobots!"

"Well," Spike addressed the camera once the Dinobots eventually disappeared, after a minor episode of Slag and Snarl getting their pointy bits tangled up in the blue curtains draping the stage. "Disaster has been averted. We'll see how the rest of auditions are going when we return from this commercial break."

The hosts smiled cheerfully as the scene segued into another teaser shot of the Iacon Trophy, then into a commercial for technology by Quantum Laboratories.

O.O.O

There was scattered applause and a few requests for fresh fuel cylinders in the Autobot rec room as the commercials began.

Wheeljack looked around the room quickly, wondering if the Dinobots were in attendance, but all five of them were conspicuously absent. This did not come as a surprise; they had a tendency to get very excited when they watched television, roaring and stomping or throwing things through the screen. Things, or in some cases, other Dinobots. Usually that meant the long-suffering Swoop, because the others had discovered he was the most aerodynamic and therefore the easiest to throw with any real accuracy.

The end result was that Wheeljack had installed a wide-screen television behind several layers of bulletproof glass and heat-resistant transparent aluminum in the Dinobot Lair, and, thankfully for the safety of all, that was probably where they were now watching the episode. So he felt secure in turning to Kup and stating, "Wow, you remembered that story in the nick of time. I don't know if I could have ever gotten the Dinos calmed down if ..."

The Autobots' resident mad scientist stopped and stared. His sudden silence got the attention of several others, who also turned to perceive the half-sly, half-guilty grin on Kup's faceplate.

"You made the whole thing up!" Wheeljack finally blurted, wavering between shock and outright admiration of Kup's blatant chutzpah. Half the room immediately burst out laughing.

"It was a true story," Kup argued with a laugh. "It just wasn't about me. And actually it wasn't really all that true, come right down to it. Now, I believe Metroplex owes me big time for saving his gym from a Dino-rampage."

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 6 ..._


	6. Auditions and Finalists

_**Dancing With The Autobots**_

Chapter 6: Auditions and Finalists

O.O.O

When_ Dancing with the Autobots _returned from its commercial break, the Decepticons had yet another hearty laugh at the visuals that greeted their optics. Obviously, a significant amount of time had passed between the filming of the previous segment and this one: All the Tap-Dancing Dinobot-induced damage to the stage had been expertly repaired. The surface was solid and gleaming as new, the velvet curtains hung in elegant, heavy folds without a rip or tear to be seen, and the hosts and judges clearly had plenty of time to collect themselves after the incident.

"I can't help it!" Starscream laughed snidely when he saw this. "I just HAVE to say that this is the funniest thing I've seen since we got to this stinking planet!"

Megatron did not answer, but it did not escape Starscream's notice that he didn't argue the point, either.

O.O.O

"Welcome back to _Dancing with the Autobots_!" an onscreen Bumblebee announced cheerfully. "Time to watch another audition or two. Let's see who's up next!"

As he turned to face the action, the camera panned beyond his shoulder strut towards the stage, where a bulky, tough-looking red mech and an equally tough-looking blue femme were stepping into the spotlight. Both of them stood and cast unwavering looks of challenge at the judges, as if daring them to say one single snarky word.

"Let's see, Ironhide and Chromia," Carly said for the benefit of the audience, pretending to refer to her notes for their names.

"Yes ma'am, that's us," Ironhide confirmed with a nod in her direction. Even though bristling and glowering at the mech judges seemed built into his very nature, Ironhide was, if anything, always unfailingly polite to the ladies of any species.

"And what are you going to perform for us today?" Carly continued with genuine interest.

"We're here for some old-fashioned swing dancing," Chromia answered plainly.

"Good choice," Kup interjected while kicking his foot servos up on the table, which earned him a silent but spectacularly murderous glare of distaste from Tracks. "You just can't beat the old classics." Most of the viewing audience would have assumed he was talking about the style of dance, but anyone who knew the real Kup could easily surmise that he was fondly referring to himself with that statement.

"Ain't that the truth," Ironhide agreed, some secret code passing between the two old-timers.

"So, how long have you been practicing swing?" Carly asked to keep the show rolling.

Chromia and Ironhide glanced at each other. "We haven't," the blue femme admitted with utter frankness. "Not really. We've run through it a couple times and pretty much got the hang of it."

Carly looked slightly taken aback, and Kup looked like he was suddenly fighting a headache, but Tracks utterly beamed at this revelation. "How brilliant!" he smiled. "I understand that the two of you have been sparkmates for a very long time. So perhaps you have chosen to eschew a more formal, rehearsed routine in favor of an improvisational dance, to better reflect on the enduring spontaneity still present in you long-term relationship?"

Everyone, from the hosts to the contestants to the other judges, stared at Tracks as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second cranial housing. Finally, giving up on the futile process of decoding what Tracks had just said, Ironhide made a slightly rude and dismissive gesture. "Ah, slag you an' yer formal foo-foo scrap. We're just gonna dance!"

"Now you're talking!" Kup agreed, then glanced over to the side of the room, where a highly advanced and brightly lit sound mixer board was being manned by the show's deejay. "Cliffjumper?"

"The classic dances deserve the classic tunes," Cliffjumper announced as he set the next musical track to play. "Here's a little Glenn Miller Orchestra, with _In the Mood_."

The dancers swung into action at the first iconic notes of the saxophones. From surly and argumentative a moment ago, Ironhide and Chromia suddenly looked like they were having the time of their lives as they stepped, twirled, shimmied, and kicked in time to the energetic big band sound.

Kup could just be seen tapping his foot in time with the music. "Hey," he commented as Ironhide flipped Chromia in a backwards somersault over his shoulder struts, "they're not half bad!"

"Indeed," came an answer from beside the judges' table, where the slightly amazed Sky Lynx had felt it necessary to add the gravity of his opinion yet again. "Before these auditions, had any mech told me that Ironhide and Chromia had parlayed their unschooled dancing style into what appears to be a real opportunity to progress in the competition, I would have immediately referred him to Ratchet for a mental evaluation!"

O.O.O

"Well," Spike said to the camera after having watched four more auditions of various skill levels and seriousness."That was fun and entertaining. It looks like tryouts are going well."

"So for now, we'll leave them to their judging," Bumblebee continued as he and Spike exited the audition hall. "In the mean time, we're going to see if we can sneak a peek and have a chat with some more of our - _WHOA_!"

Just in the nick of time, Bumblebee's reflexes saved him from being kicked in the face by a fast-moving orange streak. Spike dropped to the ground on pure instinct, and a moment later, the orange blur slowed down, righted itself, and coalesced into a young-looking Minibot who was barely much bigger than Bumblebee himself. He had a card printed with the number "20" taped to his hip.

"You'd better watch your chin, when I'm practicing my spin!" the orange 'Bot informed the hosts cheerfully.

"Gee, thanks for the warning," Bumblebee answered wryly while feeling his chin, just in case. "So, with a spectacular entrance like that, why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself?"

"Wheelie's the name, breakdancing's my game!" the little 'Bot informed the audience, as he threw himself backwards onto one hand and kicked both legs into the air. "I got the moves, I got the cred, I'm gonna knock those judges dead!"

"Not bad, Wheelie," Spike said after determining it was safe to pick himself up off the floor. "What do you think of your competition so far?"

"It's gonna be tough, but it's gonna be fun, and some of the dancers are second to none," Wheelie admitted thoughtfully.

"Well, keep that enthusiasm going, because your number's going to be called soon," Bumblebee told him, then turned back to the camera. "So, as I was saying, auditioners are rehearsing up to the very last minute, so let's go check out the moves that are going on in some of the smaller gymnasiums around Metroplex." The hosts took a few steps down the hall towards a large, double door they seemed to have chosen at random. Bumblebee keyed in the first few characters of his pass code.

"Not something I'd do, not if I were yooouuu!" Wheelie called after them in a teasing singsong.

Frowning at each other, Spike and Bumblebee looked back over their shoulders, but Wheelie was already engrossed in spinning on his back on the floor. So the hosts just shrugged it off, and Bumblebee finished punching in the door code. Followed by the camera, they stepped into the relatively small gymnasium and were greeted by the rhythmic strumming of a single Latin guitar.

They stopped in their tracks. Bumblebee stood completely frozen, with the exception of his mandible dropping visibly, and could only stare as the two of them encountered exactly what Wheelie had been warning them about.

Spike, who somehow marginally kept hold of his wits, uttered an intelligent-sounding, "Buuh?"

In the middle of the gymnasium floor, Springer and Arcee were ... well, it wasn't quite clear exactly _what_ they were doing. It _might_ have been dancing. Whatever it was, their movement was strikingly graceful and intensely sensual at the same time. Arcee's left leg was locked around Springer's waist, and, with one hand supporting her back, he dropped her into a backwards dip so deep that her head nearly brushed the floor. Neither of them seemed the slightest bit aware of the hosts' entrance. As the pink femme arched lithely into the dip, Springer spun them both in a quarter-circle, then swung her upright with a sharp but smooth snap that put their faces just millimeters from one another. The smoldering smiles they exchanged definitely upped the show's parental-guidance rating a notch or two.

"_Sí, señorita,_ I will definitely have a second helping of that," Springer declared, taking two serpentine steps forward before sliding smoothly to one knee and dropping his partner into a full-body dip that artistically laid her almost completely on the floor.

"Mmm," Arcee purred seductively, "someone's engine is running a little hot, now, isn't it?" She had both arms around Springer's neck strut, and the expressions in their optics clearly implied that passionate dancing was about to give way to passionate kissing at any moment.

"Then pour some coolant on me," Springer smiled suggestively, and moved in for the kiss.

Just in the nick of time, Spike managed a polite cough.

The dancers quickly glanced up from their shockingly provocative pose, acknowledging their hosts for the first time. "Oh, hi," Springer grinned impishly. "Care to watch?"

Bumblebee's vocal processor seemed to have shorted out completely, though his mouth worked in a valiant but futile attempt to make some sort of sound.

"We, uh," a rather embarrassed Spike managed to fill in before the shocked silence grew too thick. "You do mean watch you _dance_, right? Wait, I mean ... ahem." Straightening himself quickly, he managed in a more collected, host-like manner, "Bumblebee and I are chatting with some of the contestant hopefuls before their big moment on the audition stage today. So, what exactly is this ... routine you're working on?"

Arcee gave a kitten-like giggle as Springer effortlessly lifted her to her feet. "Music, off," she addressed the ceiling, and the prerecorded guitar ceased instantly. To the hosts, she explained, "We're rehearsing the Milonguero-style Argentine tango, of course," while quite shamelessly draping herself on her partner even though they weren't technically dancing any more. It wasn't entirely certain if they had been technically dancing to begin with.

"Of course," Spike agreed in a mutter just loud enough to be picked up by the camera. "Sure you weren't inventing some new style of plug-and-play hardware interface?"

Frowning as if he hadn't quite heard, Springer asked, "Come again?"

"Nothing, nothing," Spike said more clearly. Addressing the camera, he added, "So, for the benefit of our audience, this is Springer and Arcee. I have to say, it certainly looks like these two have already created a ... signature style for themselves."

Gazing lovingly at Arcee rather than addressing the hosts or the camera, Springer answered, "The tango's been called the dance of mutual seduction, and it certainly helps to have such a creative and … _flexible_ partner for doing it just right. You have no idea how this sassy lassie with the classy chassis can blow my diodes with some of her moves." Though the editors had zoomed in and cropped as much as possible so that this shot only showed the dancers from the waist up, the way the two of them were standing made it perfectly obvious that both Springer's hands were firmly planted on the aft portion of Arcee's classy chassis as he spoke.

"Ah. Well, you two certainly make it look … um, very ... sensual," Spike succeeded in expressing his thoughts in a manner that was acceptable to national broadcasting standards.

"Plenty of carnauba wax, that's our little secret," Springer explained with an unabashed smile as Arcee's fingers wandered obviously over his broad chest plate. "Makes it extra smooth and sexy. We spent at least an hour … _buffing _and_ lubricating_ each other before auditions."

Bumblebee looked like he was ready to flee the area. If he'd been human, his face probably would have turned several shades of pale green by now. With a mighty effort, he managed a vague, "Eep ..."

"And we've had plenty of opportunity to ... mmm ... practice the tango in the privacy of our own quarters," Arcee added as Springer pulled her even closer to him, which he somehow managed without causing any obvious paint transfer between the two of them. "Would you like a demonstration?"

Bumblebee recovered control of his vocal synthesizer just in time to blurt, "NO! Uh, no, no thanks," while backing towards the door with awkward haste.

"Thank you, but ... we're ... a little short on time," the quick-thinking Spike managed hurriedly. "We're going to have a visit with some of our show's sponsors now."

Bumblebee, already halfway out the door, could be heard babbling, "You just … go back to, er, rehearsing. Whatever you want to call it. We'll just be going now! Bye!"

The obviously flustered hosts hustled out of the gym as quickly as they could without making it look like an all-out evacuation. Just before the doors closed behind them, the two dancers could clearly seen going back to … well, whatever it was, it didn't quite look like the tango. Certainly, it started with a dance-like lunge, but ended with Arcee pinned up against the wall with her arms wrapped around her partner's shoulder struts, and with both dancers exhibiting a sudden, high level of enthusiasm for ardent kissing rather than intricate footwork.

"Heh," Spike breathed in a rather unnerved manner, with a shell-shocked glance towards the camera. Hooking his thumb in the direction of the closed gymnasium doors, he tried to laugh the whole experience off. "Sparkmates, young and in love, what can you expect? Right, Bumblebee? Um ... Bumblebee?"

No answer would be forthcoming. Bumblebee was already long gone down the hall.

O.O.O

Metroplex's rec room was filled with the sound of good-natured wolf-whistles and teasing as the scene came to a close, and both Spike and Carly were firmly covering Daniel's eyes and ears until they were certain the segment had finished.

However, the attitude of the two tango dancers was vastly different than what had just been televised. Arcee, who, like Chromia, had ultimately found the only available seat was on her sparkmate's lap, had her face buried against his shoulder in humiliation. Above the cheerful hooting and hollering of their friends, she could very clearly be heard saying, "I TOLD you we overdid it!"

This was one of the few times when Springer's ubiquitous grin looked a bit sheepish. "Well, I didn't think they were going to show the whole thing," he attempted to apologize lamely, which proved that he really didn't understand the lines that reality show producers thought along after all. "I thought, you know, they'd just use a little clip or a couple sound bites or something."

"Where's my gun?" Arcee whimpered in embarrassment. "I'm going to kill myself until I'm dead."

An evilly smirking Hot Rod, of course, chose that exact moment to add unhelpfully, "And you know the Decepticons are watching this, too, right?"

Arcee's head shot up, and both she and Springer leveled Hot Rod with an unreadable expression.

"Well, they are," Hot Rod added, a little defensively.

"On second thought," Arcee decided as she turned back to Springer, "I'm going to kill Jazz instead. Give me your gun."

"My gun?" Springer repeated with a confused look. "You've got your own. Why do you want mine?"

"Because your gun is much better suited for blowing really big holes in things I'm mad at," Arcee explained dangerously.

Jazz, who had clearly heard this entire exchange, knew better than to push his luck when any of the sharpshooting, martial arts-practicing femmes were furious at him - even if he deserved it for suggesting the whole 'sexpot' act to begin with. So he quickly used his most obvious escape route. "Um, Boss?" he addressed Optimus. "Didn't you say that the next 'Bot who interrupted the show was gonna have to report to Ultra Magnus's office tomorrow mornin'?"

"Hm?" Prime asked, calmly looking back and forth between the somewhat less than cool Jazz and the hotly seething Arcee. "Oh. No, actually, I'm rather interested to see how this one turns out."

A brief flicker of panic crossed the part of Jazz's face that was visible beneath his visor. Ducking behind Blaster - thus turning his best friend into a living shield - he pointed at the television and babbled a little too loudly, "Hey, look, this here's a great part comin' up, I've been waiting for this all evenin', everybody watch the purty TV now!"

O.O.O

"Here we are, backstage at the auditions," Bumblebee informed the viewing audience as the two hosts walked around several small clusters of Autobots who had either just performed or were among the next few acts on the roster. Both of them had visibly recovered from the shock of the previous scene. As they continued their narrative, neither looked behind them to notice Fireflight and Air Raid hopping up and down while waving enthusiastically at the camera. "We're very fortunate today. Not only do we have an abundance of talented dancers onstage, but we also happen to have one of _Dancing with the Autobots's _main sponsors here for a chat."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Spike took over as the camera panned to include a brunette woman, about Spike's age, in a well-tailored, understated lavender and gray business suit, "this is Astoria Carlton-Ritz, CEO of Hybrid Technologies. Ms. Carlton-Ritz, it's a pleasure to have you here today."

The years had been very kind to Astoria. Gone was the flighty, spoiled, poor little rich girl Spike and the Autobots had met nearly twenty years ago. In her place stood a sharp, savvy businesswoman who had finally found the intelligence and acumen to take the reins of her late father's corporation and steer it to the forefront of both the electronics and energy industries. Quite simply, life had finally given her the opportunity to grow up. "It's a pleasure to be here, Ambassador. Bumblebee," she answered with the practiced ease of a woman who employed an expert publicist. "But please, after the way we first met, I insist that you all call me Astoria."

"Astoria," Spike agreed. "Well, that leads me to my first question for you. When you say 'the way we first met,' that implies a bit of a history with the Autobots. Care to elaborate for our audience?"

"Oh, I certainly have a history," Astoria laughed. "To make a long story short, soon after I'd taken a controlling interest in Hybrid Technologies, I was in possession of some confidential industry information that I'd inherited from my late father, along with the company. One thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, I was attacked and kidnapped by the Decepticons who wanted that information ..."

O.O.O

... several Decepticons shuddered visibly at the memory, and Megatron scowled so deeply that it must have made his faceplate hurt ...

O.O.O

"... but fortunately for me, I was rescued by Powerglide," Astoria finished, never knowing the mental trauma her reminiscences inflicted on the Decepticons. Instead, she gave a light laugh. "It was certainly an adventure. He was my knight in shining armor - literally. I admit it: At the time, I was thoroughly infatuated with my rescuer. I thought I was so incredibly in love with him."

"In love with Powerglide, huh?" Bumblebee asked with a barely-smothered grin. While he looked like he was tucking the information away to tease his fellow Minibot with later, in truth he was encouraging the topic of conversation because, in a roundabout way, this was another example of the positive human/Autobot relations that Jazz wanted to showcase. "Well, that's certainly ... er ..."

"Unorthodox?" Astoria supplied, smiling widely. "If ever there was a relationship doomed from the outset, that was it. Fortunately, I've come to my senses since then. But that doesn't change the fact that it's because of the Autobots, and especially Powerglide, that I'm alive today. I'll always be grateful for that, and because of that, I'm proud to have the opportunity to be a part of _Dancing with the Autobots_."

"So after your little adventure with the Decepticons, did you keep in touch with Powerglide?" Bumblebee asked, just a little too innocently.

"Occasionally," Astoria replied. "I went flying with him a couple times not long after we'd met, but in the long run, life had this tendency to get in the way: running a company, getting married, getting divorced, and so on. Sometimes I see him in the news or get an email from him, letting me know what's up here in Autobot City, and he's very thoughtful to send me a card along with a nice letter every birthday and Christmas, but I don't think I've seen him in person in around fifteen years or so."

"Well, guess what! It's your lucky day, Astoria," Bumblebee exclaimed with a grand gesture towards the wing of the stage, where two auditioners had just made their exit, "Powerglide's coming off the stage right now!"

Momentarily oblivious, Powerglide and Moonracer came enthusiastically bouncing off the stage with an overabundance of positive energy. The teal femme had a length of yellow silk tied around her waist like a fancy sash. "That was great, Moon!" Powerglide was practically cheering. "We really nailed it!"

"Salsa!" Moonracer exclaimed, striking a pose which forced Powerglide to snap his head backwards to avoid being smacked in the face when she abruptly extended her arm. "The judges loved us!"

"And you didn't even trip me that time," Powerglide teased. Still amped up on the Cybertonian version of adrenaline, he grabbed Moonracer's hand and sent her into a quick twirl, which caused the yellow silk to flare out airily. "So now we just ... uh ... we ..." He trailed off into a dreadful silence, having just now noticed their human guest, and he could only stare at her in utter shock. The vaguely horrified expression in his optics made it abundantly clear that this was the very first moment he'd known that Astoria Carlton-Ritz was in any way involved in _Dancing with the Autobots_.

Coming out of her spin, Moonracer realized that something was wrong with her partner, but she was unsure what the problem was and so didn't know if she should be alarmed or not. She stopped, stared at Powerglide, followed his gaze to an unfamiliar human woman, and then looked back as if expecting someone to explain the joke to her.

"Powerglide," Astoria broke the ice sweetly. "It's good to see you again."

"I ... uh ... Astoria?" Powerglide finally managed feebly, glancing helplessly at Moonracer. He looked like the proverbial human child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. "You're, you're ... um ..."

"I'm here representing Hybrid Technologies as one of _Dancing with the Autobots's_ sponsors," the smiling woman filled in helpfully. "How have you been?"

"I, er ..." He glanced again at Moonracer, but wasn't quite able to look her in the optic.

"Excuse us," came a new voice just at the height of Powerglide's crisis, and everyone looked up in surprise. Like many of the behind-the-scenes segments, this ambush of a reunion had been set up with the foreknowledge of at least some of the participants. But despite Jazz's best efforts, some actual, unscripted reality occasionally snuck into the show, and this was one of those incidents.

Silverbolt had since sworn adamantly that he hadn't realized they were filming when he and the other Aerialbots passed through the backstage area; he, Slingshot, and Skydive had simply been looking for Air Raid and Fireflight. "You two," the Aerialbot team leader said to his errant brothers, thoroughly unaware of the cameras they had been waving at, "were due on the tarmac three breems ago."

The two lost-and-found Aerialbots didn't look the least bit ashamed of themselves. "Well, Bolt," Air Raid began, "in case you didn't notice-"

"Hey Powerglide!" Slingshot suddenly spoke over everyone else, and he, at least, seemed perfectly cognizant of the rolling cameras as he flashed his abrasive, smarmy grin. Obviously he recognized the situation they'd stumbled onto for what it was, because he looked pointedly back and forth between Astoria and Moonracer before adding, "Well, aren't you glad you upgraded to a fembot these days?"

Spike, Bumblebee, and Silverbolt all cringed and looked like they wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear in embarrassment. Skydive's mandible dropped in shock, while Air Raid and Fireflight just looked as if they hadn't quite caught on to whatever their brother was talking about. Powerglide, stunned, was about to jump to Astoria's defense, but as it turned out, it was hardly necessary. The woman who had once frustrated Megatron himself to near-insanity had never lost her touch. In fact, years in the boardroom had only honed her natural ability. "Interesting. I'm wondering if you'd care to explain that comment a little more fully?" she challenged calmly.

Skydive, who had learned enough humility over the years to be chagrined by Slingshot's perpetual rudeness, quickly jumped in and tried to explain, "What I think he meant to say was-"

"- he'd look ridiculous trying to dance out there with a human!" Slingshot finished with an overconfident laugh.

"Really," Astoria commented evenly, studying her elegantly manicured nails for a moment before looking up at Slingshot and asking curiously, "Why don't I see you out there on the dance floor?"

Slingshot just laughed again, unimpressed with her comeback. He clearly failed to realize she had not yet begun to fight - unlike Powerglide, who was frantically looking for the nearest solid object to hide under. "Why bother showing off on the ground when we do it all the time in the air?"

"Su-u-ure," the woman answered, sarcasm dripping delicately from her voice. "You can fly. Trust me, dearest, you don't hold a lit afterburner to Powerglide's flying skills."

For the first time in this discussion, Slingshot looked slightly taken aback. "You can't be serious," he sputtered, turning to his brothers for support. "We can fly circles around that Piper Cub, right guys?"

The silence that answered Slingshot was deafening. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would have been the sound of a lone cricket chirping. Eventually, when the unnatural quiet had made its point, Silverbolt cautioned, "You're not dragging us into this one, Slingshot."

Now fully and politely on the offensive, Astoria made her next move before Slingshot had the chance to regroup his thoughts. "Slingshot, is it? Powerglide told me all about you. I found it to be a bit of a yawner, really."

Since Autobots didn't breathe, neither did they yawn, but Slingshot was perfectly aware that the word was an insult tantamount to 'boring.' "A yawner?" he demanded angrily. "Lady, we pop Seekers out of the sky every single day!"

"And twice on Tuesdays!" Air Raid interjected, deliberately tossing more fuel on the verbal fire. Obviously he'd finally caught up with the conversation.

"Yes, and?" Astoria asked. Just over her shoulder, Spike could barely be seen desperately signaling the cameras to 'cut,' but the operators had steadfastly ignored him. Astoria's tirade had far too much entertainment value to pass up. "Do I, a mere human, need to remind you that Powerglide was dogfighting Decepticreeps while you were all mothballed in a hangar somewhere?"

Powerglide looked like he was ready to curl up and die on the spot. The Aerialbots, to varying degrees and with varying levels of success, were trying to hide their amusement at their brother's stubborn foolishness. Slingshot himself seemed to be on the verge of an engine flareup. "Well, that's only because-"

"-Only because you came online a few cycles ago. Mmm-hmm," Astoria agreed wryly. "That is what you were going to say, right? Quite a classic excuse there. But really, when you think about it, you're admitting you're just a bunch of rookies compared to him."

Slingshot was practically livid that this tiny human dared to insult him so blatantly. "But _we're _a gestalt combiner team that can merge-"

"-Into a bigger doofus who had to get saved your first time out by Omega Supreme because a bunch of mean little earthbound cars were giving you a hard time," Astoria finished smoothly. "I watched it on the news, sweetheart, so trust me, I know. That's as opposed to Powerglide, who I personally witnessed outmaneuver and fight off the so-called conehead Seekers while outnumbered three-to-one. Oh, I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Slingshot's mandible worked for a silent but furious moment. "That's..." he seethed, then abruptly turned on his heel plate and stormed off, muttering something in one of the Cybertonian languages that the Autobots involved in production had steadfastly refused to translate for the show's editors.

Shaking his head slowly, Silverbolt addressed his brothers with a tone of long-suffering patience. "Well, come on, guys. Let's go try to talk some sense into that wingnut."

With knowing laughs, the other Aerialbots quickly chased after Slingshot, though Air Raid and Fireflight paused a moment to give the camera one last round of cheerful waves. Silverbolt started out right behind them, but then he, too, paused and turned back to face Astoria. Thumping his fist to his chest plate in a respectful salute, he told her, with real admiration in his voice, "Congratulations, ma'am, that's the fastest I've ever seen Slingshot get shot down."

Astoria laughed and returned the salute by jauntily tapping two fingers to her forehead. "Well, _some_ machines and I don't get along very well," she explained, as much to the camera as to Silverbolt. "Especially when they mock my favorite flyboy! Right, Powerglide?" she asked, turning back to the mech in question. "Just like old times, isn't it?"

"Um," the normally confident Powerglide stammered uncertainly. The episode with Slingshot hadn't helped with his immediate problem, namely, he was obviously caught between two women and had no idea how to handle such a delicate situation. "Old times. Er, yeah. I ... um."

Moonracer had a somewhat deserved reputation for clumsiness, but she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, stupid. Remaining silent during this entire exchange, she studied Astoria with a calculating expression and seemed to be filling in the blanks, coming to the conclusion that they'd all been set up. Astoria, for her part, just gazed right back, and after a moment or two of sizing each other up, both females seemed to know exactly where they stood with one another and with Powerglide.

Not only smart and canny, Moonracer also had an evil sense of humor when she felt like it. Those who had arranged this little meeting had predicted six possible reactions that Moonracer might have to the situation. She surprised them all by choosing the seventh, one which even Jazz hadn't foreseen. "So you're Astoria!" she exclaimed, bursting into a thousand-watt smile. "I've heard so much about you! So glad to finally meet you! Since no one's being polite enough to introduce me," she added with a pointed glance in the stuttering Powerglide's direction, "I'll have to introduce myself. I'm Moonracer."

Clearly realizing that Moonracer was deliberately putting Powerglide further on the spot for the cameras, Astoria played along and gushed with strangely wicked glee, "Moonracer! Oh, how wonderful! Powerglide has told me all about you!"

Suddenly transforming into her sporty Cybertonian vehicle mode, Moonracer opened her door and giggled guilelessly, "Hop in, Astoria! I'm sure you and I have a lot of stories to share with each other!"

"Aack!" Powerglide managed desperately.

Giving Powerglide a coquettish grin, Astoria agreed, "Sounds like fun! I'd love to hear about what kind of routine you two are putting together for the competition!" The door slammed, an engine revved, and Moonracer zipped off at breakneck speed, leaving an abandoned length of yellow silk to flutter forlornly to the floor.

"Stories?! Wait! Hold it! Wait for me! Hoo boy!" Powerglide shouted as he took two quick steps, hopped into the air, transformed into airplane mode, and chased after the ladies as fast as his wings would allow.

"Careful!" Bumblebee shouted, forgetting for the moment that the cameras were still rolling. Waving his arms in an ineffective attempt to get Powerglide's attention, he hurried after the retreating figures on foot, shouting, "Remember, the halls are a no-fly zone!"

"On that note," Spike addressed the camera, the epitome of utter calm despite the situation rapidly decomposing around his ears, "we'll be right back after this commercial break." Unfortunately, he misread the camera crew's signals, so filming hadn't quite stopped before he let down the cool and collected facade. "Bumblebee!" he shouted, frantically dashing off after his friend. "You do NOT want to get in the middle of that!" His voice could be heard disappearing down the hall.

For just a moment longer, the camera panned over the startled Autobots who had been milling around backstage, before finally settling on Silverbolt. The Aerialbot team leader had been so surprised by Moonracer's actions that he had stood rooted to the spot, watching the action instead of chasing down his huffy brother. Finally, noticing the camera focused on him, he gave the audience a helpless grin. "Don't look at me," he said with a confused shrug. "I have no idea what just happened, either."

Then, and only then, did the scene finally fade into an image of the glittering, slowly rotating Iacon Trophy superimposed with the words _We'll Be Right Back,_ and then segued into a commercial for alternative energy options by Hybrid Technologies.

O.O.O

There was another round of cheering and clapping amidst the demands for fresh fuel cylinders and energon goodies in Metroplex's rec room, and with it all came plenty of friendly ribbing directed at the Autobots' now most famous two-timer.

Powerglide ignored it all with unruffled dignity, since technically he wasn't two-timing either girl - the unexpected reunion had caught him off guard, and the editors had gone out of their way to make his surprised reaction look like he was in deep scrap when the women found out about each other. The two ladies in his life certainly hadn't helped the situation any. Instead of getting mad or embarrassed, though, he simply turned his head to face Moonracer, who was still seated on the arm of the couch next to him. "You," he informed his longtime friend with calm, cool composure, "are evil, and must be destroyed."

Moonracer just tossed her head back and laughed with unabashed gusto. She was shamelessly aware that what she and Astoria had done was nothing short of wicked, and Powerglide's reaction to it was the funniest thing that she'd seen in several vorns. In fact, her vast amusement was so complete that she momentarily forgot exactly where she was, and threw herself a little too hard into her hearty laughter.

WHUNK!

Overbalancing, she slipped off the arm of the couch and landed squarely on her aft with a yelp of surprise. Powerglide made an ineffective grab and failed to catch her before she fell. They stared at each other for a shocked moment, then all either of them could do was laugh even harder.

In the back of the room, several credit chits were quietly exchanged as the bets over how long it would take Moonracer to fall off her perch were duly paid. Smokescreen, the Autobots' resident bookie, made quite a tidy profit on all the wagering.

O.O.O

"Welcome back to _Dancing with the Autobots_!" Bumblebee greeted the viewing audience as the episode came back from its final commercial break. They were in the wings of the stage, and just over their shoulders, the Jumpstarter brothers, Topspin and Twin Twist, could be seen on stage receiving their critique from the judges. "Auditions are winding down for now, but we've got a few more on the docket before the judges call it a night. Let's hear what they have to say."

"-absolutely stunning that you've developed such a fabu little trademark for yourselves," Tracks was gushing giddily as the scene cut to the judges' table. "And such a perfect musical selection, too! Van Halen's _Jump_, Jumpstarters, I see what you did there!"

"Yeah, I saw what they did, too," Kup grumbled. "Jump. And jump. And jump and jump and jump. Okay, so maybe you two have some skills. At least you jumped with the beat, and that's more than I can say for some of the acts I've seen today. And I'll admit I don't think I've seen anyone else that can complete a transformation in four-tenths of a second. That's impressive." Again gnawing on his ever-present cy-gar, he added bluntly, "But can you do anything else?"

Kup's blunt criticism definitely earned a reaction from at least one of the dancers. "You want to find out?" Twin Twist snarled, balling up his fists and taking an angry step towards the judges. "Come on, you want to see what else I can do?"

Carly could just barely be heard saying, "I love your enthusiasm!" as she ducked under the table, but fortunately for her and everyone else present, a second rampage in the audition hall was forestalled by Topspin.

"Don't," the Jumpstarter said, clamping a viselike hand on his unstable twin's upper arm. "Just don't. I will personally kick your aft into next week if you do."

"Go slag yourself," Twin Twist growled at his brother. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't rip his manifold out his tailpipe right now!"

Topspin gave the judges one heavily loaded glance before leaning forward and whispering something into Twin Twist's audio receptor. The effect was obvious and immediate. As he spoke, a frightening grin slowly overtook Twin Twist's belligerent expression.

Topspin stepped back with a knowing smirk. "Yeah?" he asked simply.

Twin Twist gave the judges an expression that was just as loaded as the one his brother had shot them moments before. "Yeah," he agreed dangerously.

"Take a bow!" Topspin instructed, and the two of them made elaborately synchronized dips at the waist. Half a nanoklik later, they were in their Cybertonian vehicle modes, driving off the stage and laughing maniacally. Little scraps of the numbered card that Topspin had torn off his chest fluttered to the stage, tossed about like autumn leaves in their wake.

"Hmph," Kup grumbled, glancing at Tracks. "Were we just threatened?"

"Maybe _you_ were, darling," Tracks simpered as Carly scooted herself out from under the table again. "Just remember,_ I_ called them stunning."

O.O.O

The hosts stayed to watch a few more auditions, then went behind the scenes for one final sneak peek at some of the dancers rehearsing their routines.

"So, rather than just two partners or maybe a trio, as we've seen so far," Bumblebee was explaining as he and Spike stepped out into one of Metroplex's open courtyards, "here we have an entire all-mech dance troupe. No Dinobots involved." Gesturing to a group of six gyrating dancers ranged out in various positions, he told the camera, "This is Jazz, Blaster, Bluestreak, Sandstorm, Rewind and Eject, who seem to be putting together some sort of lyrical dance that you might see in a Broadway production. Let's take a look."

The routine had ended as the camera zoomed in, which allowed them to catch the last few sentences of Jazz's critique of their own performance. He seemed fairly pleased with their progress, then told everyone to take their positions so they could try it again. Blaster hit his Play button and started the music at Jazz's signal.

"Ready, five, six, seven, eight!" Jazz counted, and on a coordinated cue, the dancers all clapped their hand servos once and stepped into a lively and expressive routine that involved rhythmic stomping, tight twirling, and intricately choreographed arm gestures, an energetic fusion between ballet and jazz dancing. Spike and Bumblebee both could be seen tapping along with the beat.

Disaster struck about thirty seconds into the dance. Hitting a spin awkwardly, Sandstorm fell to the ground with a cry of pain, frantically clutching his left hip.

"Oh, scrap!" shouted Jazz, the closest one to the fallen Sandstorm. Skidding to a halt in the middle of a dance step, he rushed to the Triple-Changer's side and dropped to his knees next to him in concern. "What happened? Where does it hurt, man?"

"I think..." Sandstorm painfully managed through a gritted mandible, "I think I shattered the double-ball joint in my hip rotator."

By now, the other dancers had realized something was wrong, and were hurrying over to see if they could offer assistance. "What happened?" Blaster demanded of Jazz, since it was obvious Sandstorm was in too much pain to answer.

"Sandy broke his balls!" Jazz answered urgently.

"Slag!" Blaster answered emphatically, though not reacting to the double-entendre like the human portion of the audience doubtlessly would. "We gotta get him to Medical. Bluestreak, help me get him up. Rewind, radio ahead to Ratchet."

The pint-sized Rewind hurried to a comm panel in the courtyard wall, deliberately set low for use by various Minibots. As he punched away at the control buttons, Blaster and Bluestreak slowly and carefully hefted Sandstorm upright, and, each placing one of his arms around their shoulder struts, gently hobbled their fallen partner indoors, and down the hall towards Medical. Jazz and Eject followed in obvious concern.

O.O.O

In the packed rec room, Ratchet looked away from the giant screen to glance questioningly at his medical colleagues, but the answer to his unspoken question was a silent chorus of confused head shakes. Turning to face Sandstorm, careful not to dislodge the comfortably lounging Firestar as he did so, Ratchet began, "I don't remember you coming in to Med-"

"It was an _act_," Sandstorm interrupted with an unrepentant smile. "I didn't actually want to dance or try out or anything, but Jazz talked me into that much. You know, just to help with some drama he had planned. Don't worry, my balls are just fine."

Resting his forehead in his hand in exasperation, Ratchet asked, "Did _any_ reality make it into this reality show of ours?"

"The dancing was real-" Optimus began, but was immediately silenced when half the audience shouted "QUIET!" at him in perfect unison. This caused the entire room to then burst into laughter.

"Let me reassure everyone that I will personally escort him to Magnus's office tomorrow morning," Elita announced with a nonchalantly straight expression when the laughter finally died down.

Optimus Prime just slowly shook his head, and said nothing. He'd earned that one, fair and square.

O.O.O

"...gonna take Sandy outta the action," Jazz was saying onscreen. Right now, it was just him and Eject, urgently conversing in the breezeway. The hosts were politely staying out of the crisis. "I ain't sure what we're gonna do. Our audition ain't until next week, but that don't really give us enough time to come up with a whole 'nother routine that works now that we got us one less mech."

"Well, we can't call the game just because of a little rain," Eject answered in his perpetual sports lingo. "Is there anyone we can pull off the bench to fill the hole in our lineup?"

"We ain't got a bench to pull from," the Specialist answered, looking around forlornly. As he did so, his optics seemed to fall on something off-camera, because he suddenly paused, his focus away in the distance but growing more thoughtful as the seconds ticked by. A slow smile crept its way onto his faceplate. "Hang on a nanoklik," he mused, "maybe we do. C'mon."

Eject, and the cameras, followed Jazz through the breezeway and back to the courtyard, where a sulking Hot Rod had just stomped his moody way to one of the Autobot-sized benches. His expression wavered between snarling fury and glum dejection as he kicked vaguely at an imaginary rock.

"Hey, Roddy, my man," Jazz called conspiratorially as he kept walking towards the young mech he was addressing, even though the camera was now holding a stationary position several dozen meters back. "Heard you had a bit of a fallin' out with the Lambo twins today. Are ya maybe interested in a chance to show those sons of glitches a thing or three?"

"Yet another interesting development," Bumblebee said as he and Spike stepped in front of the camera, obscuring both the view and the audio of whatever conversation had engrossed Jazz and Hot Rod. "Be sure to tune in this same time next week for the rest of the auditions, and see if they can pull it off."

"Also next week," Spike continued smoothly, "ten semi-finalists will be called back to dance again, this time in front of the human instructors who will be training the dancers for the finals. Three acts will be eliminated at that time, and then, the seven finalists will be announced. Next week, on ..."

"_Dancing with the Autobots_!" he and Bumblebee announced in unison. They smiled in farewell as their images dissolved into the Iacon Trophy once more, over which the end credits began to scroll.

O.O.O

Jazz later said he couldn't remember the last time one of his projects earned as much applause as he and Blaster earned that night. And this coming from a showy mech who was quite used to earning applause.

O.O.O

At the same time the next week, both the Autobots and the Decepticons, as well as one of the Nielsen Ratings' highest viewing audiences of the year, tuned in for another round of auditions that ranged from the ridiculous to the sublime. Not so oddly as one might expect, the truly horrible auditions got the most screen time, while performers whose routines actually involved thought, effort, and talent were lucky to get a few seconds.

In and amongst the outlandish costumes and spectacularly uncoordinated presentations, Optimus Prime and Elita One were briefly seen waltzing across the stage like they owned it, and a bit later, Sunstreaker and Sidewsipe's hip hop routine took the judges by storm. Shortly thereafter, Jazz's lyric troupe shined through the rubble to wow the audience, with the "substitute dancer" Hot Rod truly amazing everyone who actually believed he was a real trouper who had only been practicing with this team for one week.

Nobody saw a clip of Springer and Arcee's tango, which fed a massive but entirely untrue internet rumor that their audition had been censored due to FCC broadcast regulations.

At about the twenty minute mark of the second episode, callbacks began. The judges, having patiently - for the most part - critiqued all the acts, had narrowed it down to ten who were to dance again for the human trainers.

Spike and Bumblebee duly introduced the professional dance instructors - Reynard, Cyl, Adrienne, Darius, Lessandra, Madiera, and Bob - who were given carte blanche to not only pick the finalists, but to select which Autobot acts they would be training over the next few weeks.

Brought back to dance for this high-pressure audience were Optimus Prime and Elita One, Ironhide and Chromia, Inferno and Firestar, Springer and Arcee, Twin Twist and Topspin, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, Powerglide and Moonracer, Wheelie, Jazz's troupe, and Huffer and Brawn.

It was widely believed that Huffer and Brawn were brought back to dance just so the instructors could witness for themselves how truly awful some of the auditions had been - otherwise, the humans just might not have believed it. They didn't stand a chance of going further in the competition, and both Huffer and Brawn knew it. Still, game for a little more screen time, duly got up on stage when called, fluffy white tutu and all.

Powerglide, it was noted, studied the audience very, very carefully before he and Moonracer danced. Whatever, or whoever, he was nervously searching for, he did not seem to find it, and this appeared to be quite a relief to him.

There was heartbreak for Wheelie, who breakdanced very well, but whose juvenile, smart-alecky attitude and insistence on speaking in singsong rhyme managed to annoy the instructors to the point that none of them wanted to work with him.

The Jumpstarter twins were so stunned that they'd gotten called back after having threatened the judges, that they were completely thrown off their routine. Their formerly choreographed dance dissolved into a bunch of random jumping, which utterly failed to impress the instructors.

And so, to much cheering and applause, the finalists were announced: Elegant Optimus and Elita performing the waltz, crusty Ironhide and Chromia swing dancing, Arcee and Springer (whose audition turned out to be reasonably tame, but whose reputation was already sealed) dancing the tango, highly focused Inferno and Firestar exerting their precision training on the quickstep, bad boys Sunstreaker and Sideswipe showing off their machismo through hip hop, Powerglide and Moonracer earnestly attempting to improve themselves with salsa dancing, and Jazz's tight, energetic team overwhelming the stage with lyrical exuberance.

As the judges and instructors retired to another room to discuss which instructor was going to train which act, Spike and Bumblebee followed the finalists backstage. They were greeted by the noisy, happy chaos of all the excited finalists congratulating each other. Hugs, laughs, handshakes, slaps on the back, and bouncy squealing abounded, so much that the hosts didn't know where to turn first. Even Chromia had forgotten her crotchety persona for the moment, and was giddily hugging and congratulating Moonracer.

Hot Rod, who had been thoroughly warned of the perils of cooperation and camaraderie by Jazz, was the ringer who was supposed to stir up conflict and drama whenever possible. So, after jumping on Bluestreak's back long enough to give the surprised mech an embarrassing noogie, he bounded over to the smug and self-congratulating Lamborghini twins. "In your faceplates, guys!" he shouted with all the bad attitude he possessed, poking a finger servo at Sunstreaker's optic and just missing by millimeters. "In your FACEPLATES! That'll teach YOU for kicking me off the team!"

"Oh, transform and slag off!" Sunstreaker snapped back nastily. The twins, too, had been prompted by Jazz to instigate a little drama for the sake of ratings; Hot Rod was currently the perfect target. "You've still got to beat us in the finals!"

"Suck my exhaust, you wind-up go-carts," Hot Rod sneered, and bounded off towards his own team as the hosts finally managed to calm down some of the finalists enough to conduct some quick interviews. The commotion only died down to the level of an impromptu party, so Spike and Bumblebee were lucky to get a few useable sound bites out of Optimus, Ironhide, and Firestar.

Soon enough, the competitors started getting messages informing them which professional dancer they would be working with. Powerglide and Moonracer, first to be assigned, wished everyone else good luck and left the backstage area to go meet with their instructor. A few moments later, Firestar and Inferno were also bidding everyone well just as Arcee and Springer received their own message.

Hot Rod, still stirring up trouble as per orders, followed these last two out of the backstage area and into the hall. A camera had obviously been set up out there, as it showed the couple walking a few steps down the empty hall before Hot Rod hurried out the door after them. "Wait, wait!" he called, catching up and taking Arcee by the hand, which caused the femme to turn quickly in surprise. "I just wanted to say congratulations," he told her, while pointedly ignoring Springer. "May the best dancers win," he added, bowing like a gentlebot and giving her hand a long and obvious kiss for luck.

Hot Rod glanced up just in time to see a jealous-looking Springer punch his lights out.

O.O.O

Shocked silence followed in the rec room as the scene cut from Hot Rod sprawled blearily on the floor and went back to the hosts for their final comments of the evening. But nobody was really listening to their exhortations to tune in the same time next week. They were simply all too stunned by the completely out-of-character behavior they'd just witnessed on the television. Even Jazz hadn't known about that particular altercation, and as a result, he was more surprised by it than anyone else.

The uncomfortable silence was not, in point of fact, completely silent. It was almost immediately rent by a double, "Woo-HOO!" and the sound of Hot Rod and Springer high-fiving each other.

"That was perfect!" Hot Rod laughed.

"You called it!" Springer agreed, then, noticing the room was otherwise quiet, he looked around at the other Autobots, who were all staring at them both with various expressions of shock and surprise. "What?" he asked blankly. Then, after a moment, he seemed to realize what everyone was thinking. Throwing up his hands in exasperation, he exclaimed, "Oh, come on! I barely even tapped him!"

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Everyone just stared.

"You guys have got to be kidding!" Hot Rod quickly added, verbally running to his friend's defense. "Springer knows how to pull a punch, and I know how to take a fall so it looks real."

"Um ..." someone said, slowly and carefully in the otherwise uncomfortable quiet.

"And for everyone's information," Arcee finally added in a tone that clearly conveyed she couldn't believe she actually had to say this out loud, "what you just saw was take number four, at least."

"Ohhhhh..." was the relieved chorus that echoed through the rec room.

O.O.O

Not long after that, the episode came to a conclusion. The last dregs of mostly-empty fuel cylinders were polished off by their owners, a few friendly scuffles broke out for the last energon goodies and plasma bytes, and the thoroughly entertained crowd slowly dispersed back to their posts or their off-duty leisure time.

"Wait! Hold up a nanoklik!" Jazz called after the gaggle of first responder 'Bots as they joked amongst themselves and headed towards the door. "Hotpants! Inferno, I got it! I finally got your schtik!"

"Our... what? Our stick?" Inferno asked quizzically as the group paused to look at Jazz in confusion.

"No, man, not your stick!" Jazz explained, emphasizing his point by randomly waving his arms a lot. "Your _schtik_! Your trademark! Y'know, like Ironhide an' Twinkie are playin' it all ornery and abrasive, or Sunny an' Sides are pumpin' up the bad boy routine. That's their schtik, now I got yours!"

Inferno and Firestar glanced at each other uneasily. "I don't like where this is going," Firestar admitted.

"Isn't it a little late to be trying this now?" Inferno asked in a panicky attempt to nip this one in the bud, whatever it was. "I know we just watched the second episode, but I don't have to remind you that we're weeks ahead of that in filming. We've only got one episode left before the finals."

"I know, I know," Jazz agreed. "That's why if we're gonna introduce somethin' this late in the game, it's gotta be a shocker. See, it's like I been sayin' all along, as far as our human audience goes, sex sells, an' that's a fact."

"Um, I think that's Springer and Arcee's, er, schtik," Red Alert began, but Jazz just talked right over him as if he hadn't said a word.

"So, Hotpants, that li'l scene with Roddy an' Springo got me to thinkin' how we can play things. Let's set things up an' suddenly reveal that you an' Red Alert here are havin' an affair behind Inferno's back!"

"WHAT?" Red Alert yelped in horror, with a bright flash behind the shocked mech's optics that warned of a near-glitch in his neural net.

"It's perfect!" Jazz explained. "Think about all the fights an' the drama! We can just say you were hidin' it real well, that's why nothin' about it came up before ..."

"No, Jazz," Firestar interrupted, with calm and firm finality. "I'm not pretending I'm having an affair with Red."

"Okay, fine," Jazz shrugged easily. "Inferno, let's set it up so YOU an' Red are havin' an affair ..."

"WHAT?" Inferno and Red Alert shouted in unison. Red Alert almost fell down that time.

"Man, that was worth it just to see the looks on your faceplates," Jazz grinned, while in the background, Ratchet shook his head and muttered something about his crazy hope that a little more reality might accidentally find its way into their reality show. "But seriously, you guys are the only ones without any schtik. Even Optimus an' Elita have their trademark super-elegant extra-dose-of-class goin' for them. I think this here's the perfect way to make people sit up an' take notice of you guys."

"Actually," Firestar countered evenly, "Inferno and I already worked out our schtik, you just haven't realized how we're playing it yet."

Jazz lit up like a firework. "Yeah?" he asked with boundlessly hopeful exuberance.

"Yeah," the red and orange femme agreed, taking her partner's hand and spinning herself into the quickstep's beginning stance. "We're portraying ourselves as the Autobots who are deliberately avoiding all the drama and who are in the competition simply because we want to dance." On the cue of that last word, she and Inferno aimed for the door and practically skipped out of the room, with Ratchet, Red Alert, and Ratchet's closest friend Wheeljack hot on their heels.

Jazz could only stare after them, shocked to the point of an uncharacteristic silence which he was later glad that nobody witnessed. Here they were in the spotlight on national television, and they wanted to _avoid_ the drama?

The idea was utterly baffling.

Finally, unable to wrap his neuroprocessor around the thought, Jazz shrugged helplessly. Speaking to the ceiling as if addressing Primus Himself, he asked in true confusion, "Where's the fun in _that_?"

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 7 ..._


	7. On To The Finals

_**Dancing with the Autobots**_

Chapter 7: On to the Finals

O.O.O

In the end, it was not the threat of Astoria Carlton-Ritz's reaction to Moonracer that caused Powerglide to pull out of the competition. It was the threat of Moonracer herself.

Most 'Bots never quite realized that Moonracer's reputation for clumsiness did not stem from any unusual "ditziness" or physical lack of coordination. Her difficulty sprung entirely from her natural tendency to focus with nearly microscopic detail on what she was doing. While this might, on the surface, appear to be a benefit rather than a problem, what it came down to was that whenever she concentrated so narrowly on perfecting her own actions, she tended to lose track of everyone else around her.

Powerglide knew this. Therefore he really had no excuse, and no one to blame but himself.

It was near the beginning of the third episode, in one of the first lessons with Madiera, that Moonracer was concentrating on getting a particularly sharp arm gesture exactly right as she came out of a flourishing twirl. Her focus on her movement was absolutely complete: She knew exactly where her feet were to fall, she could feel at exactly what angle her hips were to sway, she remembered precisely how far to snap out her extended arm.

She completely forgot where Powerglide was.

Unfortunately it was her elbow that located him first, in a random but forceful encounter with his left optic. The cameras, of course, recorded every moment of the action, from Powerglide dropping like a rock with a howl of pain, to a visibly mortified Moonracer's profuse apologies, to Ratchet's first on-screen appearance when he showed up to haul the half-blind dancer to Medical.

Though Powerglide's optic was quickly repaired and as good as new, his dancing never quite recovered. From his unconscious but obvious leaning slightly back on his heel plates, it was clear to Madiera and the audience that he was constantly on the ready to dart out of Moonracer's reach at a nanoklik's notice. Though Moonracer was one of his dearest friends, his trust in her as a salsa partner was shot, and his dancing suffered for it. By the middle of the episode, Powerglide regretfully realized his confidence was never going to recover in time to throw himself back into the dance with no reservations, and Madiera recommended he withdraw from the competition to allow Moonracer to find a better-suited partner.

An emergency request had been sent out to any Autobots interested in another shot at the competition. By the end of the episode, Mirage had accepted the challenge. The aristocratic Autobot had auditioned for the show and danced quite well, though his act was eliminated because of two partners who hadn't taken it quite as seriously as he. Fine dancing, as Mirage explained when he stepped in for Powerglide, had been an elegant and refined pastime of Cybertron's upper class before the war.

He of the upper class was felled by an accidental uppercut to the chin before the episode was even over.

By the start of the fourth episode, while the other competitors were rehearsing their individual dances as well as working together on a group performance that would begin the live show, Moonracer was burning through partners at an alarming rate. Of all 'Bots, Perceptor volunteered to be her next partner, believing that the experience would be an invaluable first-hand lesson in the dynamics of rehearsed versus impromptu motion, and the effect of audible rhythm on both conditions.

Shortly after beginning the session, Perceptor received a very educational knee to the nuts and bolts and decided the lesson was over.

On the condition that he could dance with his force field in effect, Trailbreaker volunteered to be Moonracer's next partner. The field did save him once or twice, but Madiera had to tell him, in polite but firm terms, that he was just too clunky of a "dancer" (she used the term loosely) to stand a chance.

Creatively, Hound offered to use his hologram projector to cast an illusion of himself dancing with Moonracer, thus eliminating any physical danger to his chassis. He certainly was commended for original thinking, however, after some thought, the show's creators decided it was far too easy to make a hologram dance even better than the person who was projecting it. While Jazz and Blaster never accused Hound of it, they dismissed the idea as opening the door to cheating.

Near the end of the fourth episode, Optimus Prime and Elita One had mastered the waltz so well that they nearly appeared to be floating across the stage. Ironhide and Chromia, as crabby as they were behind the scenes, were absolutely joyful in their exuberance for Swing dancing. The Lamborghini twins were proudly flaunting their bad-boy attitudes with masterful hip-hop, and Arcee and Springer, when they could be prodded into focusing on dancing instead of each other, had polished their tango into an art form. Inferno and Firestar quickstepped like nobody's business (which was exactly how they felt about a certain someone's repeated efforts at imposing "schtik" upon them), and even "The Jazzy Boys" squad was strutting with a casual, synchronized confidence that was a joy to watch.

At the same time, while the long string of volunteers left Moonracer pleasantly surprised to learn just how many mechs she actually had wrapped around her little finger, she despaired of ever finding a suitable dancing partner with only one episode's worth of filming to go. Even Madiera had given up hope, and both were ready to withdraw from the competition entirely.

Breaking Jazz's cardinal rule about friendly cooperation being bad for ratings, a depressed Moonracer sought out her surrogate mother figure, Elita One, for a long, consoling talk. It was during this conversation that Elita, ruminating on what kind of dance partner would best suit Moonracer, had commented that whoever he was, he would have to not only be light on his feet, but fast and dexterous enough to dodge gracefully before Moonracer herself realized her attention had slipped.

Whether Elita intentionally had a particular mech in mind when she made that statement would never be known, but the thought lit Moonracer up like a supernova. There _was_ a mech who fit that description! Even though he hadn't volunteered to dance when the call was first issued, Moonracer knew how to work her feminine wiles to convince him that, against all the impossible time constraints, dancing with her in the competition was exactly what he wanted to do.

Fortunately, with all his other talents for speed, Blurr was a fast learner, too.

O.O.O

"Yo! Blaster, my man! Partner extraordinaire! How goes it?"

With his foot servos resting on the console he was working on, Blaster glanced up and grinned as Jazz made his noisy entrance into the secondary communications center. "Polished and shining, that's a fact!" he answered, holding out a fist in Jazz's direction. The Specialist obliged with a friendly knuckle-bump, then grabbed a chair, spun it around, sat down straddling the backrest, and took a moment to grin at a monitor that was playing last week's episode of _Dancing with the Autobots._ Blaster continued typing with one hand more efficiently than most people typed with two, while his other hand hung over the side of his chair to absently pet Steeljaw, who was pawing through an old copy of _Elle_ magazine to sniff happily at the perfume samples.

"Cool. Well, I just wanted to make sure you got your stuff packed for Eugene," Jazz mentioned after craning his neck strut to see what Rewind and Eject, seated at smaller consoles to the left of Blaster, had on their screens. "An' NO complainin' from any of you that we're missin' karaoke night 'cause we're gonna be at the finals, either. You won't believe who all's whinin' about that! Sheesh, what's _one_ karaoke night, folks?"

"Not a peep from me," Blaster answered with a gesture of concession. "Can't gripe about the schedule when I'm the one who booked the stadium, can I? But speaking of complaints ..." Pausing, the Communcations 'Bot turned his attention to a stack of data pads. Selecting one, he handed it to his production partner. "Got this li'l missive from Moon Base Two today."

"Moon Base Two?" Jazz repeated, accepting the data pad and scanning the familiar communique it contained: a letter from Lancer and Greenlight, their two femmes who were currently serving off-planet, signed by several other Autobots stationed on base with them. Once again, the message opened with the usual castigation for _Dancing with the Autobots_ being filmed when those on Moon Bases One and Two were unable to participate, but, to Jazz's surprise, this time the letter went on to provide a detailed proposal of the next reality show they felt Jazz should produce in order to make it up to them. He read it carefully, his mandible falling a fraction further with each word.

"_Survivor: Moon Base_?" Jazz spluttered, then stealthily glanced up to see if anyone had noticed how close his carefully-maintained cool had come to being very uncool indeed. They hadn't. Good. Of course, if there was any mech in this universe who could witness Jazz losing his cool and keep his lip plates zipped, it was Blaster. "Uh, you answer this already, man?

"Yeah," Blaster nodded, and Jazz secretly dreaded the conclusion until Blaster finished, "Took it upon myself to tell 'em that we weren't at the point of considering anything else until we hear if the network decides _Dancing with the Autobots_ is enough of a hit to pick up a second season."

"Brilliant," Jazz complimented, handing the data pad back. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to go through all the work and stress of coordinating another round of _Dancing with the Autobots_, but for moment, he firmly decided to not even think about it until the first season was done. "Glad you're on my side, pal. Anyway, like I was sayin', I just came to tell you that the Boss says we should prob'ly roll out in a couple hours."

"Driver's seat!" Eject immediately proclaimed, quickly raising both hands in the air.

Jazz just laughed, and shook his head. "Sorry, man, as much fun as you had freakin' out that poor cop who pulled us over last time, what with him expectin' a human driver an' all, I think it's Rewind's turn to take the wheel."

Eject just muttered something inaudible. It didn't help that Rewind turned in his seat and victoriously thumbed his olfactory housing at his brother.

"So," Jazz continued, while he and Blaster pretended they hadn't witnessed any of this typical sibling rivalry, "Prime's havin' a last-minute conference with Magnus and Red Alert, makin' sure Metroplex is in good hands while we're gone. An' the Techies are just finishin' uploadin' that Synergy program into Teletraan-2 so it'll be ready for tomorrow's dress rehearsal."

"Sounds like they were happy with the coding, then," Blaster surmised. Unquestionably, the Technobots would not have even considered introducing a foreign program into Metroplex's main computer if they had suspected it of even the slightest security risk.

"Happy with it?" Jazz laughed. "Computron's so impressed with the programmin' that I think the big nerd's tryin' to figure out how to ask it out on a date! Anyway, that's all gonna take a bit still, so we got a little time before we roll. Any last minute surprises from the court o' public opinion I should know about?"

"Not much," Blaster answered, clicking through to a new screen. "The little dudes are just finishing up some blogging, and they found something in the replies that'll just floor you. Me, I been tracking the trends that we can see in the comments on all the online fan sites - which, in case I didn't tell you, a good portion of those sites were set up by Extensive Enterprises, though I'm pretty sure they don't know I know that."

Shrugging it off, Jazz reasoned, "Makes sense to me. They're gonna make all their money from the voting at the finals. They gotta drum up as many voters as they can if they want to up the ol' profits, but they don't want it obvious that all them 'unofficial' fan sites are official, any more than we want the audience to know that a certain two competitors are the show's creators, y'know? So, anyway, what did the dudes find?"

"Go ahead and read it, Eject," Blaster said, waving with a flourish toward the bluer of the cassette twins.

Eject, who had found the questionable post in the first place, immediately clicked through to a particular screen on his console and began to read. "This was posted yesterday by someone calling himself Sonyguy_RIBFIR," he stated.

"Sonyguy_RIBFIR," Jazz repeated with a carefully neutral expression beating down the amused grin that was battling for its rightful place on his faceplate.

"Yep," Eject agreed, "and he says, quote, 'dansing iz STOOPID &ottobots r STOOPIDER so dansing ottobots iz teh STOOOOPIDEREST i hope tehy BLOW UP wel OK the femz are hawt but DESEPTIKONS R KEWL &oyah i hope that slime pRIME dont win &he loozes cuz he SUx!1!' End quote."

It never occurred to Jazz to ask how Eject was able to so accurately pronounce the bad capitalization, lousy punctuation, and terrible spelling inherent in that post. In fact, it never even crossed his mind that those things should have been utterly impossible to verbalize. "Femmes," he noted with a wry expression, attempting to pronounce it 'femz' and not succeeding nearly as well as Eject had. "Huh. Well, now, all I can say is _humans_ usually don't use that word when they're referrin' to our gals."

"That's what tipped me off in the first place," Eject agreed.

"And who d'you think Mr. Sonyguy_RIBFIR's secret identity is in real life?" the Specialist grinned.

"It ain't Soundwave, that's for sure," Blaster reasoned. "The guy never uses complete sentences, but from all his communications I've intercepted, I can tell you that at least he knows how to spell." With a shrug, he added, "Gotta be either Rumble or Frenzy."

"'Course it's gotta" Jazz grinned. "An' y'know what this means, right?"

Ramhorn, who seemed to be in one of his better moods today, flicked a mechanical ear and looked up from where he'd been lounging in the corner, staring with sour disapproval at Steeljaw's perfume obsession. "It m-means the l-l-little p-p- the little punks c-can read," he said in his bizarrely characteristic stutter.

Everyone in the room let out a hearty bark of laughter at that assessment, even Steeljaw, the confirmed feline.

"Well, yeah, that too," Jazz smiled. "But me personally, I was thinkin' it means that the 'Cons def'nitely ARE watchin' this, so let's not remind the Pink Lady, 'kay? Once she figured that li'l fact out in the first place, took me two days to talk her into keepin' up the whole sexpot routine for the rest of the show." With a faint grimace, he added, "An' even that was only after I bent over an' let her kick my aft halfway to Montana."

"Aw, c'mon," Blaster said with a friendly shove at Jazz's shoulder. "Admit it, my man, you loved it."

"Every slaggin' minute of it," the Specialist confessed freely, but then he frowned slightly. "'Course, then Springo had to get in a kick for good measure too, an' that part wasn't so pretty."

"It's called suffering for your art," Rewind suggested innocently.

Jazz promptly grabbed the nearest paper printout, rolled it up, and whacked the cassette twin smartly over the head. "Anywho," he continued calmly, "I just wanted to see what we're lookin' at from our adorin' public with only two days to go before – oh, hey!" he interrupted himself excitedly. Pointing at the television monitor, Jazz quickly thumbed his visor back, giving Blaster and his deck crew a very rare, bright twinkle of his actual optics. "This here's my favorite part of the whole episode!"

"Oh, yeah, good ol' Chromia!" Blaster laughed. "This part was hysterical!"

"Sshhh! Sshhh!" Jazz demanded, frantically waving his hand to demand silence just as onscreen, Spike and Bumblebee approached the closed doors of one of Metroplex's gymnasiums.

O.O.O

"-even though everyone has been working together on one showstopper of a production number that includes all the competitors," Bumblebee was explaining to the camera, "the individual routines that will be danced in the competition itself have been kept as closely guarded secrets."

_Not entirely true,_ Jazz thought. They had been closely guarded secrets right up to that precise moment when the third episode began showing all the dancers' choreography for the whole world – including every competitor with access to a television – to see. But what the hey, it was _almost_ true.

"So now that the competitors have rehearsed their routines to the point of perfection," Spike continued when Bumblebee left off, "why don't we drop in on some of the final products and see if we can have a sneak peek at how our professional instructors have whipped their raw talent into shape over the past few weeks?"

Keying in the code to open the door, Bumblebee stepped through the threshold first, and over the sudden sound of Big Band Swing music, explained to the camera, "Here's Ironhide and Chroma, practicing their -"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Chromia's furious shout interrupted Bumblebee, and the little Minibot shut his mouthplates and turned with an expression of startled horror just in time to see the blue femme stop dancing, grab a chair provided for their human instructor, Bob, and hurl it at Bumblebee's head. "HERE TO SPY ON US, IS THAT IT?"

Shrieking in terror, Bumblebee dropped to the ground and covered his head as the chair came flying at him. The plastic shattered against the wall a few yards to his left, and he scrambled to his feet and fled for the exit as Chromia charged at him, shouting, "GET YOUR AFT OUT OF HERE, YOU SLAGGING GO-BOT!"

"YOU HEARD CHROMIA!" Ironhide added, grabbing the small table that matched the chair, scattering their instructor's warm-up clothes and extra shoes. Brandishing it like a bizarre club, he chased after Bumblebee, shouting, "NOW GIT!" just before the doors slid firmly shut.

A loud, splintering crash sounded against the other side of the closed doors, but Bumblebee had already skittered safely away from the fury of two of the most heavily armed and trigger-happy Autobots in the entire solar system. He sagged against the wall, clearly relieved to be still alive, as the camera crew caught up to him.

"Heh," Bumblebee managed weakly when he realized the cameras were still rolling. "A little testy today, aren't they? I guess that means they'll still be keeping their final routine a closely-guarded secret for the time being."

Spike, who had somehow outrun Bumblebee in all the excitement, nervously appeared in the camera again, and peeked around in several directions to make sure it was indeed safe. "Um," he asked, genuinely confused for once, "Go-Bot?"

"Erm," Bumblebee hedged, looking a bit embarrassed by the question. "It's a ... it ... Cybertonian legends," he finally managed with a dismissive wave of a hand servo. "Early breakaway sect, well before the Golden Age. There was supposedly a mass exodus right after we Autobots first developed the art of transforming during the Second Great War. We call them Go-Bots because they decided to go and desert Cybertron when the war was almost won. It's a bit of an insult because they're considered inferior by pretty much all Cybertonians, IF they existed at all, that is. Only Vector Sigma knows for sure, and it isn't talking."

"Oh. Well, then ..." Spike continued onscreen, but everyone in the communications center was laughing too hard for the rest of his lines to be heard.

O.O.O

"Scrap, that just gets more hysterical every time I watch it!" Jazz managed as he finally got his laughter under control again. "'Course, anyone who knows Twinkie is gonna see that if she missed by that much, then she MEANT to miss, but still. Poor Bee didn't even know that was comin' so he prob'ly didn't have time to think about it. Bet he never realized he was gonna be takin' his life into his own hands by hostin' this show."

"Th-the lady h-h-has s-style," Ramhorn stuttered, which, coming from the foul-tempered rhino-bot, was a high compliment indeed.

"And attitude aplenty," Blaster laughed. "I just can't believe Spike's been hanging with us for more than half his life, but he never heard of a Go-Bot before. But y'know, I kinda liked the part in this ep where they visited Jack's lab, showing off some of the souvenirs that are gonna be available." With a wicked grin worthy of some Decepticons, he fast-forwarded to the segment in question. "Poor Bee, it was bad enough that Chromia tried to take his cranium housing right off his shoulder struts, but to nearly get killed twice in the same episode? Too much, man, just too much!" He let his finger servo off the _forward_ button when he reached the right point in the video, then casually laced his arms behind his head and sat back to enjoy.

O.O.O

"-is Wheeljack," Bumblebee was explaining to the audience, introducing a sporty mech whose oddest quirk seemed to be that parts of his helm lit up brightly when he spoke. "Even though he's not a competitor, he's still super-stoked about all the energy and enthusiasm going into_ Dancing with the Autobots. _Wheeljack, why don't you tell us a little about how you've decided to commemorate the competition?"

"Sure, Bumblebee," Wheeljack answered, and the helm flanges framing his half-masked faceplate flashed accordingly with clear, blue light. Leading the hosts over to a table that was just a bit too tall for either of them to comfortably see over, he motioned to a shapeless lump veiled with green cloth. "Take a look. It's my prototype for the official _Dancing with the Autobots_ 1:24th scale articulated souvenirs."

Standing on the tips of his tarsal plates and staring at the veiled object with an obvious sense of unease, the little Minibot ventured, "You ... made collectible sculptures based on the competitors?"

With a flourish that made Spike momentarily duck for the relative safety of the underside of the table, Wheeljack unveiled his newest invention. "You bet!" he said, and though his mouthplate was not visible beneath the mask that protected the lower half of his face, the triumphant smile was clearly present in his voice as he beamed with pride over a model of what was supposed to be two robots dancing. "See, it even looks like them."

Bumblebee appeared to be trying to figure out which couple it was meant to be. This should not have been as difficult as it seemed, considering that the participants all had distinctive features and paint jobs. "Er ... if you say so ..."

"And watch!" Wheeljack continued, oblivious to the clear consternation in Bumblebee's demeanor. Pressing a button at the metal statuette's base, he explained, "It dances, too!"

"Well, it's ..." Bumblebee began, but he was not able to come up with a compliment that suited the situation. Backing away slowly, watching the dangerously whirling model the entire time, he commented, "Er... it's not dancing so much as it is spinning ... really, really fast ... Wheeljack, are you sure this is supposed to ... WHOA!" He barely ducked in time as the dancing toy suddenly rocketed off its base and missed clipping his forehead by mere centimeters.

"WATCH OUT! I mean ... um ... Heh," Wheeljack laughed uncomfortably as the hosts hit the deck and stayed there. The souvenir-turned-high speed missile was already lost to view. "Well ... erm ... I'm pretty sure Hasbro toned it down a bit before they put them into production. Heh heh."

There was a loud howl of, "OWWWWWWW!"somewhere off-camera, and a moment later, Grimlock, in Tyrannosaurus mode, lumbered into view. He was rubbing his dented snout with one undersized T-Rex hand, and clutching the broken remains of the dancing toy with the other. "Why Wheeljack hit my nose?" he demanded in a very hurt and confused tone.

O.O.O

Jazz, Blaster, and everyone else in the communications center didn't wait for Wheeljack's reply; again, they were laughing far too loudly to hear it.

"Oh, scrap," the Specialist laughed, mirthfully pounding the back of the chair he was still straddling. "That's so funny, it hurts, man! Good thing Grimmy knows Jack is his creator, otherwise I think he woulda chomped him right there!" Eventually getting a grip on himself, he popped his visor back into place over his optics and added, "But enough of that for now, 'kay? I was just wantin' to go over all the details one last time before we hit the road."

"Best news is, the whole stadium sold out weeks ago," Blaster answered, shutting off the video and turning to a screen full of facts and figures. "And we already got about half a dozen letters from different hotels and restaurants in Eugene, thanking us for all the tourist business we're bringing to town. The VIP box is all full with our happy, happy sponsors' reps, too. Let's see ... who we got coming? Aside from Spike and Carly's parents, we got everybody. Symultech, the Shore Foundation, Pepsi, Hybrid Technologies ..."

"Astoria?" Jazz interrupted.

"Yep," Blaster nodded. "She'll be there in person again, too bad Powerglide ain't dancing any more. Who else we got? Um, Goodyear, Meguiars, Quantum Labs ..."

"Y'know, I like Quantum a whole lot better since Chip took over as CEO from Paul Gates a couple years ago," Jazz mused, a point which actually had very little to do with the conversation.

"Yeah, good ol' Chip, we ain't had any evil sentient computers taking over the planet's machines since he steered the company away from the evil sentient computer business," Blaster agreed absently as he scrolled through the sponsors' guest list. "And we round out the guests in the VIP box with Earth Defense Command, Hasbro, Columbia Sportswear, Extensive Enterprises, Capezio ... wait, hang on a nanoklik ..."

"Someone missin'?" Jazz asked, then realized the answer to his own question. "Wait, what about Starlight Music?"

"Well, Starlight's represented," Blaster answered, but he truly sounded disappointed for some reason. "It's just, their representative is somebody called Rio Pacheco. Who in the Pit is he? Well, scrap. There's a note here, says Miss Jerrica had a prior commitment and might not be able to make it, or if she does, she's gonna be late. Didn't see that before now."

Jazz was just as disappointed as Blaster; he'd been looking forward to meeting the young woman his friend had raved so much about. "She musta had a pretty good reason. Slag it, I wanted to thank her for roundin' up Jem an' the Holograms for our opening act. Well, let's keep our finger servos crossed that she's just a li'l late, an' maybe wants to come back stage for a meet-n-greet when the show's over." Allowing himself a moment to sulk, Jazz then wiped the slightly pouty expression off his faceplate, turned to the cassette twins, and changed the subject. "So, li'l dudes, how's the bloggin' goin'?"

"I can't tell you how many times we've answered the question about why we picked such an odd number as seven acts," Eject answered.

"I can," Rewind interrupted his twin. "Four hundre-"

"PENTALTY BOX!" Eject shouted before his brother could finish. Rewind just stared blankly at him, as if he had no idea what that phrase or any of its accompanying hand gestures meant.

"What kinda answer you givin' 'em?" Jazz directed the question to Blaster rather than risk riling up the cassette twins again.

"Something to the effect of, 'well, don't forget that there's another act with all the dancers together, so that makes eight. We also got Jem and the Holograms for a half-hour set before we start, and Brick Springstern for what we're calling the halftime show. Then we got a number that the instructors are gonna be putting on, and the Aerialbots are gonna perform an airshow when the voting starts. Add in all the time the judges are gonna take commenting and everything, plus time for commercials, and a duet or three between Jem and Brick during the time it takes to tally the votes, and seriously, we're not even sure this is gonna fit in the three hours of airtime we have.' By the way," the Communications 'Bot mused at the end of his recitation, "how ARE we gonna fit all that in three hours?"

Shrugging, Jazz pronounced confidently, absolving himself from all responsibility, "That's the stage manager's job, man."

Blaster just shook his head. "Prowl's gonna scatter your atoms from here to Cybertron for this, you know that, right?"

The Specialist cheerfully laughed off the possibility. "Sheriff can't catch me, I are sexy Porsche! I go zoom zoom!"

"He'll set a speed trap," Blaster suggested with a grin. "With tire spikes."

"Yeah, well, we all know he's got a broomstick up his tailpipe," Jazz assessed bluntly, then turned the conversation back to the original topic. "So, what do all them advanced polls tell us?"

"Nothing as clear-cut as the Top 40 Countdown," Blaster admitted. "We can kinda track the comments on the fan sites, but we're being unscientific enough that we'd give Perceptor the glitches if he saw it."

"Do tell," Jazz grinned.

"Rewind?" Blaster prompted, ignoring his own monitor at this point. "Skip the fine details and give us a general overview, 'kay?"

From memory, the trivia-loving twin began to recite the unofficial data they had observed. "Without attempting to predict who will win overall, I can say that each set of competitors seems to appeal to a different segment of the population. For instance, Ironhide and Chromia show the greatest concentration in the older population, what humans call their _Baby Boomer _generation."

"Baby Boomers, huh," Jazz mused, giving this information a moment's worth of careful consideration. "Well, there ain't no school like old school, an' those two are _def'nitely_ old school. If I'm rememberin' my recent human history right, Swing was big when them Baby Boomers were young an' trendy. Plus Hide and Twinkie are a li'l older an' all, so yeah, that's prob'ly the demographic that's gonna identify with 'em an' root for 'em. No surprises there. Okay, so how 'bout the Boss an' the Li'l Pink Bulldozer?"

"Optimus and Elita's fans seem to generally be of a slightly higher class," Rewind answered, "who consistently cite their elegance and grace, and well-spoken eloquence, as their major appeal."

"Aw, c'mon, EVERYBODY loves the two of 'em," Jazz laughed. "My credit says they take it all. But ignorin' that, how's it lookin' for everyone else?"

"Springer and Arcee have a major following in the under-thirty crowd."

"I knew it!" Jazz crowed proudly. "Man, I don't care how hard they kicked my aft, I'm so glad I talked them into bringin' the sexy back. I totally figured they were gonna nail that demographic with it!"

"Which I totally don't get," Blaster admitted.

Giving his friend a mock-patronizing expression, he asked bluntly, "All right, man, what is it about a hot young couple revvin' each other's engines that you don't get?"

"Careful," Blaster said in feigned seriousness, nodding his head towards the cassette twins. "There's little audio receptors tuned in."

"Okay, kiddos," Jazz immediately instructed, "plug 'em."

Glancing at each other in disbelief, Rewind and Eject shared a moment of disgruntled solidarity over the First Lieutenant's command. Then, with identical expressions of mild outrage, they made an elaborate show of dutifully clamping their hands over the sides of their cranial housings.

"Humans, they like to live vicariously," Jazz explained, even though he knew the twins could likely hear every word he said. "They see a sexy couple shiftin' it into high gear, they get a thrill outta projectin' themselves into that same situation, y'know?"

"I get that," Blaster admitted with a wave of his hand. "I'm totally the first one to admit I do it too sometimes, and I bet I ain't the only one, huh?"

Grinning guiltily, Jazz nonetheless proclaimed, "You can't prove nothin'."

"It's just I think humans must have the wrong impression, or something," Blaster continued. "I mean, seriously, how sexy would they think it is if they found out that our main method of reproduction ain't necessarily a mech and a femme putting the key in the ignition so much as it is a big giant shiny orb of a supercomputer named Vector Sigma, that oh by the way also controls most of our freakin' planet?"

Finally understanding, Jazz just laughed and slapped the back of his chair again. "Blaster, my man, you of all 'Bots oughta know there's loads more to it than just _that_. Just ask any of our resident happy couples -"

"What, like Optimus and Elita?" Blaster interrupted nonchalantly.

Realizing what he'd just implied, a look of horror passed over Jazz's features before he grabbed his head in a panic. "GAH! BRAIN BLEACH! BRAIN BLEACH!" he howled.

"Looks like I win that round," Blaster smugly informed Ramhorn as Jazz banged his forehead repeatedly against the back of the chair he was straddling, trying anything he could think of to dislodge the very icky mental image of a lovey-dovey Optimus and Elita that he'd inadvertently conjured. "But I get you. Give the audience what they want to see, and forget about Vector Sigma 'cause that ain't what's important to them. Of course," he added slyly, "if you want to up the ratings another notch, we could always bring the sexy back even more by having Prime and Elita -"

"LA LA LA NOT LIIIIIIISTENING!" Jazz sang loudly enough to drown out the horrible, evil suggestion he knew Blaster had been about to make. Springer and Arcee were one thing, and even Ironhide and Chromia's cuddly moments didn't bother him, but there was just _something_ about the thought of his commanding officer gettin' down with the Li'l Pink Bulldozer that gave Jazz's circuits the twitchy glitches.

"How about I pretend to unstopper my audios and finish reporting the trends now?" Rewind offered politely. At Jazz's frantic, _please continue, my hero _gesture, he calmly recited from memory, "Sunstreaker and Sideswipe seem to have cornered a particular segment of the male, age sixteen to twenty-four bracket."

"Jocks an' bad boys, I betcha," Jazz nodded, finding himself back in more comfortable territory and feeling eternally grateful to Rewind for the change in conversation. "Right up Sunny an' Sides's alley. Well, now, see? What was I sayin' before you went an' totally corrupted my image of the Chief? Everybody likes to identify with things like themselves."

"Or with things they want to be like," Blaster suggested. "Bad-boy wanna-bes?"

"Or things they simply sympathize with," Rewind countered. "Moonracer and Blurr have broad-spectrum support from many sections of the population who want them to succeed despite their adversity. With all the trouble Moonracer's trying to overcome, she's viewed as, to borrow the human term, the underdog, while Blurr is being lauded as a real trouper for coming through for her at the last moment."

"Yeah, they'd be gettin' the sympathy vote, all right," Jazz reasoned. "I can't imagine people wantin' to actually identify with the kinda troubles poor Bubbles has been havin', but they respect her gumption for stickin' it out, an' who wouldn't root for a guy for runnin' to the rescue of a damsel in distress? 'Course, knowin' Blurr, he was prob'ly runnin' at like five hundred miles an hour, but hey, whatever works. At least they really can dance when it comes right down to it, so whatever votes they get, they earned 'em fair an' square. How 'bout Inferno an' Hotpants?"

"Comments indicate that a large portion of their fan base is a sector of the population that appreciates the fact they're acting mature enough to stay out of the petty squabbles and over-the-top behavior that most of the other competitors are displaying," Rewind answered, not noticing that Eject, behind him, was currently holding two finger servos over his head in a classic "bunny ears" position.

"Huh," Jazz grunted noncommittally, which, in this case, could roughly be translated as, _Well, cover me in scraplets, I can't believe that schtik actually worked, an' I sure ain't gonna admit to it! _"Okay, so everybody else seems to be doin' just fine. I guess the big question is, what about our team? Who's out there rootin' for us?"

"Decepticons and the 'Vote for the Worst' crowd," a grinning Blaster interjected before Rewind could reply. Jazz made a rude Cybertonian gesture at him for that, and when Blaster cheekily made an even cruder gesture right back, the Specialist grabbed a stylus off the nearest data pad and chucked it at his friend's head. He missed entirely, though not by intention. Blaster just laughed, and Steeljaw leaped up from his magazine to pounce on the stylus as it skittered across the floor.

"No, seriously," Jazz asked Rewind, turning back to face the cassettes with what was for him an utterly deadpan expression, so as to not give away anything about Eject's silent, brotherly taunting. "Who we got in our corner?"

"Seriously?" Rewind repeated with a random glance at his twin, who, just in the very nick of time, whipped his hand out of the bunny-ear gesture and back down to his keyboard. "Well, actually, it's kind of a bizarre trend. Our fan base is heavily skewed towards age sixteen-and-under high school girls."

Jazz considered this blankly for a moment. Then, realizing what the demographic implied, he dropped his head onto his folded arms and lamented, "They think we're a _boy band_!"

"S-s-sucks to b-b- sucks to be y-you," Ramhorn offered bluntly.

"Aw, it can't be that bad. If we're a boy band, then Hot Rod's our Justin Timberlake," Blaster explained, which earned him an openly curious expression from Jazz. "He's like some sort of celebrity god now. It's like you figured, man. People either love him or hate him, there ain't no middle ground. His popularity went through the roof 'cause tons of people think the Lambo Twins treated him so unfair. A lot of the girls in our audience say he's totally dreamy - cuter than Bee and Spike put together - and they think he's even more of an underdog than Moonracer, so people want him to win so he can rub it in the twins' faceplates. 'Course, your jocks and bad boys who are voting for Sunny and Sides don't seem to agree, and they think they were totally right for kicking his clumsy aft off the team. Some people are even campaigning to vote him off the show entirely, 'cause they figure him for nothing but trouble."

"Well, he _is_ ..." Jazz mused thoughtfully.

"Yeah, he sure plays it to the hilt sometimes. Makes for a lot of nasty name-calling and trolling on most of the fan sites, believe me."

"So Roddy's got himself some notoriety," Jazz assessed approvingly. "It ain't quite as good as fame, but it's loads better than obscurity. Is that the hot topic of the week?"

"Chromia going ballistic on Bumblebee in the last episode definitely got a surge in the comments," Rewind replied at an encouraging glance from Blaster. "At least as much as that third-episode meltdown Darius had when Sunstreaker and Sideswipe decided they wanted to work transforming into their routine even though he kept telling them it wasn't a legitimate human dance style. Still, it all comes back to Roddy. One of the most divisive topics on the fan sites is that punch Springer threw at him way back in the second episode."

"Really?" Jazz commented with a certain amount of proud satisfaction. "Wow. Wish I'd been the one to think of it, if that's the case!"

"You got your drama, that's for sure," Blaster continued where Rewind left off, pulling up a forum on a random fan site and glancing over the comments. "Like they're saying right here," he explained, pointing to a discussion thread on the monitor. "On the one hand servo, we got the Roddy-fans who say he was just being all gracious and polite by congratulating another competitor when he kissed Cee's hand, and that Springo was way too jealous and over-reacted with totally unnecessary violence. So they think Roddy, and, oh yeah, the rest of us poor suckers on his team ... _HIS_ team, mind you, deserves the win just because he's put up with way more scrap than anyone should have to. On the other hand servo, we got just as many people dissing Rod and calling him all sorts of arrogant scum 'cause he's already rubbing the twins' faceplates in it, and he ain't even won yet. Their take is that he was way out of line by kissing a girl who ain't even HIS girl without her permission, so they're all jumping on the Springer bandwagon 'cause they totally admire a guy who's ready and willing to step up and defend his mate like that."

"Not that our gals need all that much defendin' in the first place," Jazz mused, certain of what he spoke through personal experience, some of it fairly recent. "Man, if people knew what was really goin' on there ..."

"Nobody's figured it out yet, and I ain't gonna tell 'em," Blaster countered, then paused to look slightly startled when Steeljaw unexpectedly hopped into his lap and settled down comfortably, the sad, gnawed remains of the stylus dangling from his fanged mouthplates. "Either they never knew, or else everybody just conveniently forgot that Roddy and Springo are best buds in real life, so that means a lot of people are tuning in hoping for another smackdown. Heck, as much as Cee and Springo are obviously into each other, there's a portion of the commenters that think she ought to completely ditch him and hook up with Roddy."

"Pfft! Not gonna happen in this reality," the Specialist shook his head with finality. "So, I kinda got the picture here. But I got one big ol' question in all this. You're sayin' all the competitors are feelin' the love from dif'rent parts of the audience, 'cause of their attitudes, or their can-do spirit, or their level of hotness, or how much of an underdog they are, or ... I dunno, how much drama they're involved in, or whatever, right?"

"Yeah, I'm with you so far," Blaster agreed. "So, what's your question?"

Thoughtfully resting his chin on his folded arms, Jazz, who silently conceded that he was the one who had aimed for all the drama in the first place, was finally forced to wonder aloud, "Anybody out there actually give a rip about our _dancin'_?"

O.O.O

_Why? Why? Why why why WHY did Megatron have to be so dense? _

Irritably, Starscream stalked the halls of the _Victory_, heading for his quarters where he could have the peace to indulge in the luxury of breaking something and pretending it was Megatron's thick head. Their Supreme Leader was really serious about this, wasn't he? He actually intended for the Decepticons to go through with this farce. He had just outlined his outrageous plan to stage a full-scale assault so they could steal the ridiculous _Dancing with the Autobots_ trophy, because he honestly believed it was -

"Um, Starscream?"

"What?" Starscream snapped, whirling on his heel plate and instantly giving Skywarp the Glare of Doom. The Air Commander hadn't heard anyone behind him just a moment ago, leading him to believe his Seeker underling had teleported into the hall with him. Starscream did not like it when people snuck up on him. No, he did not like it at all.

"Uh, I was just wondering," Skywarp hedged, looking nervously around himself before continuing.

_Aha,_ Starscream realized, noticing Skywarp's unease._ He doesn't want anyone to see me talking to him. So he DID teleport in. _"Wondering WHAT?" he prompted sharply when the silence threatened to stretch forever.

"I was just wondering if, um, you had a plan of attack to get this trophy thing for Megatron?"

Shoving down most of the surge of irritation to the point that he didn't actually feel the immediate need to throttle his subordinate, Starscream snarled, "What more do you want? You heard _mighty _Megatronjust now. We attack during the Autobots' ridiculous live performance, when we are assured of the presence and location of his precious little prize. Isn't that good enough for you?"

"Well, uh, no, not really," Skywarp admitted in a nearly inaudible but definitely ashamed tone. Glancing around again, checking to see if anyone was listening, he kept his voice low as he explained, "Me and Thundercracker were sorta hoping for something a little more specific. Y'know, like, what exactly are we gonna do when we get there? How are we supposed to actually get the dance trophy thingy? Megatron's plans, well, not that I'm saying anything bad about Megatron or anything, but his plans usually come down to, 'Decepticons, ATTAAAACK!' and sometimes that's kinda vague on the details, you know?"

Despite himself, Starscream almost laughed. Funny thing, how right on the nosecone Skywarp's treasonous little assessment actually was. "Hm," he pondered, giving himself a moment to consider the situation. Frankly, he was convinced Megatron's latest crazy scheme was doomed from the outset, but as Air Commander as well as Second-In-Command, he felt he ought to ...

... he ought to ...

... he really should ...

Oh, to the Pit with it. He didn't want anything to do with this debacle in the making.

"Tell you what," Starscream finally replied with oily, patently false camaraderie, as if a secret were passing between the two of them, "you've been such a loyal soldier all this time, I think perhaps it's finally YOUR turn to shine."

Skywarp looked utterly unsure of where his superior was going with this. "Um?"

"No, seriously," the Air Commander continued with enough 'warmth' to freeze nitrogen, "I am happy to give you this opportunity. Consider it a reward for your vorns of steadfast service. I'm quite convinced that you, Skywarp, are perfectly capable of formulating an attack that is, shall we say, aptly suited to the scope of Megatron's plans." Throwing a deceptively friendly arm around Skywarp's shoulder struts, he offered with uncharacteristic generosity, "Devise it, and I will gladly relinquish Air Command to you for the duration of this mission."

Skywarp beamed with pride at Starscream's encouraging words. "Command? Really?"

"Oh, _absolutely_," Starscream answered with a smile wide enough to pain the cogs in his mandible, "I am completely confident that your skills are suited to the task. Now you'd better hurry, the Autobots are putting on their _darling_ little dance show in just two days. That doesn't give you much time for planning and implementation, you know."

"Oh! No, of course not!" Skywarp answered quickly. "I mean, I'll get right on it! Thank you!"

Starscream watched the Seeker hurry away with a disgustingly cheerful spring in his step. No doubt the fool was dazzled by the thought of command and already hatching a dozen plans of attack, each more ill-advised than the one before. He suddenly had a worse feeling about things than he had when he'd heard Megatron's unfathomable desire for the trophy in the first place.

"Well," he said aloud to no one in particular, continuing on to his quarters in the quest to now find _two_ things to break, "I certainly hope I live long enough to regret this."

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 8 ..._


	8. The PreShow

_**Dancing with the Autobots**_

Chapter 8: The Pre-Show

O.O.O

Bluestreak, engrossed as always in chattering incessantly with everyone around him, forgot to pay attention to his scans of the terrain ahead. Embarrassingly, he blew out a front tire when he ran over a lost drywall screw in the road, holding up the entire caravan and enduring the good-natured ribbing while he quickly repaired himself.

At one point, Topspin had to physically tackle his brother to keep the unstable Twin Twist from attacking and destroying a rock formation along the side of the road that had "looked at him funny."

Ironhide somehow drifted out of his lane and nearly ran himself and Brawn right off the road. Eventually, he shamefacedly admitted to Jazz that his attention had slipped because he'd been too busy watching Chromia's back bumper to actually watch the road.

The fliers had a little scare when Fireflight flew a bit too low as they crossed the Cascade mountain range, but fortunately, the other Aerialbots shouted at him loudly enough to snap him out of his daydreams just before he crashed.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, showing off as usual, raced ahead at twice the speed limit, and were immediately pulled over by the human police and issued speeding tickets. It wasn't the fact that Prowl unyieldingly required them to pay their fines that annoyed them the most – truth be known, the Lamborghini twins had begun taking modeling jobs for the covers of various high-end automotive magazines to earn the money to pay their impressive stacks of citations. It was the fact that Blurr, the fastest Autobot known to exist, smugly laughed at them the rest of the way while he drove a sedate and consistent 68 miles per hour.

There were three near-accidents involving Swerve. But then again, there usually were. The Autobots just wouldn't have given him the Earth-name of Swerve if they expected careful driving out of him.

A road construction delay in rural Lane County threatened to hold everyone up for at least half an hour. Rather than wait, the Autobots transformed back into their robot modes, and, to the surprise of the workers and the cheering of dozens of delayed motorists, calmly walked through the hay field along the side of the highway until they'd passed the construction site, got back on the road, transformed, and drove off as if this sort of thing happened every day.

Other than that, and the surprisingly messy incident involving a flock of pigeons that everyone vowed never to speak of, the trip to Eugene for the finals of _Dancing with the Autobots _was largely uneventful.

O.O.O

"This looks good, man," Jazz said proudly to Blaster as he surveyed the scene before him. "This looks real good."

It was the day before the live performance, and the Autobots were making last-minute arrangements and putting the final touches on the modified arena that was Autzen Stadium. Grapple, Hoist, and their work crew and security detail had arrived four days prior, to build the Autobot-sized stage and set.

The stage, judges' platform, and pedestal where the Iacon Trophy would sit, waiting for the winning dancers to claim the top prize, were all impressively understated, just elegant enough to fit the mood of the show without outshining the performers. In addition, to protect the stadium's regular turf, they had covered the entire field with a thin but sturdy plating that would support the weight of at least twenty Autobots without damage, and which looked very much like a Cybertonian causeway. But the artistic Grapple hadn't stopped there. The tunnels normally used by the football teams entering the field from their locker rooms had been surrounded by gilded archways designed to look like landmarks familiar to anyone who had been to Cybertron, and were draped with blue velvet stage curtains. Flags printed with Autobot insignia hung interspersed with sponsors' banners throughout the stadium. Jazz had even noted a massive Autobot sigil carefully stenciled squarely in the center of the University of Oregon's iconic yellow "O" over Autzen's main entrance. Grapple himself was currently fussing loudly about the way the velvet curtains draped while vigorously polishing the archway until it shone; his best friend Hoist followed him with an air of long-suffering patience and an occasional placating nod of agreement.

Jazz smiled as he looked around at the Autobots organizing themselves in preparation for today's dress rehearsal. On the stage itself, Bluestreak and Hot Rod were carefully pacing off the distance from the center to the corners and from side to side, while Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were bouncing on their tarsal plates and making a few practice jumps, testing the resilience of the stage's surface. Each group was casually working around the other, peacefully and without conflict, unlike what the world had seen during the five episodes already aired.

Up in the stadium bleachers, Rewind and Eject were rehearsing their way down the stairs. The little dudes had been distracted by the arrival of their big brother Slamdance when he finally flew in from his archiving mission on Moon Base One earlier today, but after an excited reunion that involved at least one of them getting dunked in the Willamette River, (Blaster wouldn't say which one, but Jazz had his suspicions), they had settled in to the task at hand.

Most of the dancers wanted to come up with entrances a little more impressive than just walking onto the field. Jazz's group had decided on starting at the top of the stadium and dancing their way down through the audience, hoping the proximity would give them a closer connection to their fans. As for the other acts, he was pretty sure that Springer, being the only competitor who was flight-capable, intended to fly himself and the Pink Lady in for their entrance. Sunny and Sides, on the other hand, were being fairly secretive about their grand entry, and Jazz was pretty sure that, in keeping with their on-screen (and real-life) personas, Ironhide and Twinkie weren't even going to be bothered with working out an entrance. They'd gone sightseeing for an hour or two instead. Inferno and Hotpants had informed him they had "something" planned, but, to Jazz's endless frustration, politely declined to tell him exactly what. He did know that Blurr had worked out a "magical" appearing act by asking for a half-second blip in the stage lighting, during which he would rush himself and Bubbles onto the stage so fast that, when the lights came back up, it would look like they'd come out of nowhere. Blurr was currently explaining this idea to Hound, whose experience in the field of holographic projections had earned him the position to liaison to the Synergy program that would be controlling the show's special effects. Or, at least, Blurr was trying to explain, Hound was trying to understand, and Moonracer was trying to get Blurr to either slow down to something like fifty words a second or to put a sock in it entirely so she could explain the concept herself. Powerglide, who was attending the dress rehearsal as Moonracer's number one fan, was off to one side laughing hysterically, and being no help whatsoever.

Just then, Optimus Prime, transformed into truck mode, came barreling out of the curtained tunnel. Racing about halfway down the field, he suddenly slammed on the brakes and turned hard, deliberately skidding and fishtailing into a 180-degree spin. When he came to a stop, the back end of his trailer dropped open. Nothing came out, but then again, at the moment, nothing was supposed to. During the live performance, the plan was for Elita to emerge from the trailer, using Optimus's momentum to throw herself out of the trailer and into a powerful twirl as he transformed. However, she had insisted he practice the move a few times first, a decision that turned out to be wise: the first time he tried it, Optimus had embarrassed himself by losing control, flipping and rolling himself halfway down the field, while letting out an extensive string of flowery vocabulary that no one ever suspected would have come out of the Prime's vocal processor. He'd quickly disappeared, heading to the nearest truck stop, and came back an hour later with a quick wash, a thorough buffing, and a fresh coat of wax to hide all the scratches he'd given himself. Not surprisingly, all Optimus had to do was offer everyone a stern glare upon his return, and not a single word was spoken about the incident.

Not within his range of audio reception, anyway.

For just a moment, the Specialist wondered exactly where the Little Pink Bulldozer was while Optimus was out there perfecting his technique, but then he remembered she and Firestar had promised an interview to the local media. The two of them, along with some, if not all, of their human instructors, were probably in the parking lot of the Register-Guard right now, answering questions for the region's newspaper and television channels. He hoped they'd be back soon; the dress rehearsal couldn't start without them.

According to Blaster, Slamdance had gone along as well, to record the interview for the Autobots' own archives, but his main function for this event would not begin until tomorrow night, when he would anchor the live, pre-show broadcast that the network had set up.

Others were missing too, and Jazz resisted calling them to tell them to hurry it up. Bumblebee and Tracks had taken Spike and Carly to pick up Carly's parents at the airport, and while they were out, to show themselves off a bit and generate a little last-minute publicity. Tracks had radioed back that the plane was delayed by about an hour. Inferno, with nothing else to do until Firestar got back, had pulled up some information about a nearby restaurant called "Pegasus Pizza" and offered to take Daniel and Spike's parents to get some lunch.

Jazz was pretty sure that was because Daniel loved blasting Inferno's siren in the middle of traffic, and everyone else just loved humoring the boy.

A humming motor in the sky announced the presence of the well-known icon of one of their main sponsors: the Goodyear Blimp. Red Alert, in his constant state of paranoia, had actually come up with this helpful idea. Jazz had been concerned about the possibility of paparazzi trying to get a scoop by shooting photos from helicopters over the stadium, but the slow-moving blimp had right-of-way, essentially prohibiting other low-flying aircraft from entering the local airspace and ensuring the show a certain amount of secrecy.

Of course, Slingshot and Air Raid chose that exact moment to streak overhead, proving they either didn't understand or simply didn't respect the whole concept of FAA right-of-way. Jazz could hear Silverbolt yelling at them over the general communications link a moment later.

Off to one side, security for the show was being organized as Springer issued orders to a small but dangerous-looking group of Autobots all known to be on the roster of the Wreckers: Twin Twist, Topspin, Broadside, Sandstorm, Whirl, Devcon and a few others; even Kup was listening in. A few steps to Springer's left, Arcee appeared to be consulting a data pad, listening to Springer, and holding a conversation on her private communicator, all at the same time. Jazz guessed she was coordinating the Wreckers' orders with those of the Aerialbots, the Protectobots, and the lighter gunners and lookouts, like Cliffjumper and Windcharger, who could be seen choosing their posts up at the top of the stadium.

"There he goes again," Jazz observed as Optimus made another practice run onto the field and executed a nearly-perfect fishtail. "That's seven in a row now that he ain't flipped himself. If he makes ten, he figures he's got it."

"Seems kinda like a weird entrance to me," Blaster commented. "I mean, it works, I guess, but ..." The Communications 'Bot trailed off with a vague shrug.

"Nah, the Boss always got a reason," Jazz answered. "Says he's sick of people always askin' him where his trailer goes when he transforms, so he wants to settle it once an' for all by transformin' on national TV like that. Says everyone can just see for themselves."

A sly grin crept on to Blaster's faceplate. "Oh, well, if that's the case ..."

Jazz let out a smug laugh. "Already on it. I told the crew to make sure they're pointin' the cameras every which way _but_ at Prime's trailer tonight."

"You're the man!" Blaster laughed the distinctly Earthen compliment. They exchanged a congratulatory high-five, then quickly dropped the topic when they heard a familiar voice in a one-sided conversation coming up behind them.

"Yes … yes … understood," Prowl said, speaking to someone over his personal communicator rather than through the general link. "Excellent. Let Springer know that I'll coordinate with the Aerialbots as soon as Silverbolt chases down those two delinquent brothers of his and gets them back on the ground. Apparently Air Raid and Slingshot somehow got the idea that it would be fun to go on a strafing run of the State Capitol up in Salem … Repeat that, please?" Whatever was said on the other end of the line almost caused the Police 'Bot to crack a smile. "Arcee, that 'giant glowing disco ball of a supercomputer' has a name. It's Vector Sigma, and tell Springer that Vector Sigma _did_ give the Aerialbots a brain when it gave them life. One brain for all five of them. It went about ninety percent to Silverbolt, seven percent to Skydive, and the rest divided between the other three … No, divided _equally_. I'll let Slingshot know you said so. Prowl out."

Jazz and Blaster put on their blandest expressions the moment Prowl clicked off his communicator and turned his attention to them. "Howdy, Sheriff," Jazz casually drawled in his worst Old West accent.

"Jazz, Blaster," Prowl nodded, stepping up next to Jazz to observe the organized, if bustling, activity on the field before them.

"How goes the stage managing?" Blaster asked with innocence that nearly rivaled Jazz's legendary cool facade.

"For not being my first choice of assignment, it's going quite well, actually," Prowl answered as he checked the readout on one of his endless supply of data pads. Then he looked across the field and to the stage with a rare smile. Hot Rod and Sideswipe, both moving backwards while pacing out their respective steps, had accidentally bumped shoulders. Though it was a little too far away to hear what was said, it looked like the two of them traded quick apologies and then stepped around each other without further incident. "I must say," Prowl continued, "I'm pleasantly surprised how civilized everyone is finally behaving now that we're at the finals. This is coming together seamlessly. I have to commend the two of you for pulling this together so well. But if you'll excuse me, I need to go check with Hound to make sure the Synergy program is ready for a trial run."

"Sure, no prob, buddy," Jazz nodded as Prowl turned away, already speaking into his private communicator. Blaster and Jazz grinned coolly until their reluctant stage manager transformed and drove out to meet with Hound, putting him well out of audio range.

"Civilized, huh?" Blaster commented with a knowing shake of his head.

Jazz smiled. "Can't wait to hear what he says when we go live an' everybody pulls out those extra-special on-camera personalities."

"I'm telling you," Blaster laughed. "You. Your atoms. Scattered to Cybertron and back when Prowl gets done with you!"

"You an' me both!" Jazz agreed heartily. Then, he turned and offered his hand for Blaster to shake. "Then I guess I should go ahead an' say it now before he gets his hand servos around both our neck struts. It was good knowin' ya, buddy!"

O.O.O

"Well," Starscream said as a triumphantly grinning Skywarp clicked off the video demonstration. His tone was calm and slightly thoughtful, though if he had given voice to the shriek of disgust running through his cranium, windows as far away as Bolivia would have shattered instantly. "I can certainly see how this is … er … an entirely appropriate plan for a jet attack on a dancing competition."

Skywarp beamed.

"I will, of course, refrain from the initial attack so that I can locate the trophy while you draw the Autobots' attention with your … brilliant maneuvers," Starscream continued, with the full intent of absolving himself from any responsibility for this debacle whatsoever. "Otherwise, you have complete aerial command of all the Seeker forces. And I will be certain that Megatron knows that the cunning mind behind this … _unique_ strategy was yours, and yours alone, Skywarp."

O.O.O

And so the night of the finals arrived. Dusk was barely hinting at turning the clouds red and orange as Spike and Bumblebee returned to their dressing room, about half an hour before Jem and the Holograms would strike the first note of their opening act. They had just finished hosting a back-stage tour for the sponsors' representatives and twenty lucky families who managed to score special tickets to this exclusive look behind the scenes.

Expecting his makeup and wardrobe artists to arrive in a few minutes to help him prep for the live cameras, Spike checked his reflection in the full-length mirror and tugged irritably at the tuxedo jacket he was wearing under protest. "I can't believe Jazz actually made me wear this monkey suit," he muttered, though without much real rancor.

"Yeah," Bumblebee agreed, tugging at the red silk bow tie that was tied firmly under his chin, "and I can't believe he made me wear this monkey … uh, tie. I mean, seriously, do you know how many Autobots have ever worn a bow tie?"

Spike looked at his friend in the mirror and smothered a grin as Bumblebee held up two finger servos. "Two!" the little 'Bot exclaimed as angrily as he could, which, considering that it was Bumblebee, wasn't very much. "That's counting me! The other one was Grimlock, for crying out loud! And both times, Jazz was involved!"

"Proving that either Jazz is a way smoother operator than any of us ever realized," Spike answered, unable to hide the good humor any longer, "or else Grimlock just didn't get the joke. Besides, it's just because none of you had ever heard of a bow tie before you came to Earth. Who knows, you might start a fashion trend. Anyway, what are you complaining about? It's just a bit of fabric around your neck. Jazz could have made you get a whole new paint job for the show."

Bumblebee paused, frowning a little in confusion. "I did get a new paint job for the show," he finally said. "We all did. They wanted us to look our best for the cameras. You know, the same reason they make you wear that makeup stuff."

"I don't mean a fresh coat of the same paint you've always worn," Spike answered, ignoring the makeup comment and the thoughts it dredged up of his wife's gentle ribbing on the same topic. Carly gleefully pointed out to anyone who would listen how a nice matte foundation really made the shade of his eyes pop. "I mean a whole new color, like I'm wearing a whole new style of suit that I hate. Jazz really goes for the glitz and glamor and bling, so I can just picture him making you go with, oh, maybe a nice metallic glitter flake gold. That would really shine under the stage lights, wouldn't it? Heh, then we'd have to call you Mr. Gold-Bug or something."

Bumblebee looked utterly horrified. "Uh, no, I'll just stick with being plain old highlighter-yellow me with a bow tie, thanks anyway," he said decisively.

"You get to stick with yellow, but I'm still stuck with a tuxedo -"

_Fleedle eedle eedle eedle eeee!_

"Your butt's ringing," Bumblebee pointed out helpfully as Spike flinched, then dug in his pocket and produced an Autobot-designed cell phone prototype that wouldn't be on the general market for another two years.

Recognizing the number that displayed on screen, Spike glanced up just in time to catch his friend's reproachful glare. "I can't believe you had that in your pocket the whole time we were hosting the tour," Bumblebee scolded. "With the ringer on, even!"

"Hey, you never know when the President might need to call Ambassador Witwicky," Spike answered with a shrug and a grin. "Hang on a sec, okay? It's Dad." Touching the screen to accept the call, he held the device up to his ear and said, "_Bah-wheep graaagnah wheep ni ni bong!_" Then, after a pause followed by an amused eye roll, he said, "Thanks, Dad, I'm glad you and Mom liked the tour even though you've seen ninety-nine percent of it already. How do you like the VIP seating? ... Uh huh ... yeah ... oh, Bee says hi," he added when he noticed the Minibot waving at the phone cheerfully. "Anyway ... what? Why are you asking me if Danny can have soda and cookies? You're his grandpa, isn't spoiling your only grandkid while his parents' backs are turned what you're supposed to do? Do I have to send you to Grandparenting 101? ... what? What do you mean, 'you already asked Carly, and she said no?' What are you trying to do to me here ... Revenge? For what? … Are you kidding? I was the perfect kid! Any parent would kill to have a kid like me! No trouble whatsoever, no sir ... W_hat_? No, Dad, this is _not_ the time to talk about the time I carried Soundwave into the _Ark_ thinking that some loser just happened to drop a perfectly good boom-box in the middle of the slagging desert! ... Yes, I _did_ just use a Cybertonian swear word. As Ambassador to Cybertron, it's only right that I immerse myself completely in the culture of the people I'm ambassadorizing. Besides, you should see Bumblebee, for having a metal skin, he all but blushes every time I swear."

Caught, Bumblebee quickly turned to the state-of-the-art monitor that had been installed in their dressing room, and started nonchalantly punching buttons to tune in to Slamdance's pre-show program.

"Anyway," Spike continued, "as far as feeding Danny goes, right now, it's your call. Just remember, if he gets so hyper that he annoys the sponsors or has to go potty eighty times during the show, it's all your fault. Anyway, how's everyone else getting settled? Does Chip have good wheelchair accommodations up there? Uh huh ... uh huh ... oh. Astoria, huh? Well, when you get the chance, tell him I'm sorry he got stuck sitting next to her, but I didn't have anything to do with the seating ... wait, what? _WHAT?_ ... Are you _kidding_ me? Whoa ... really? You seriously can't tell which one's flirting with the other more? Okay, that was the last thing I was expecting. You're sure they're not just discussing a corporate merger or something? ... I see. Well. ...Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Look, Dad, I gotta go, the makeup department is going to be here any minute ... no, a little matte foundation does NOT make my eyes pop! Dork. ... What? No, I said, 'love you, Dad.' Bye!"

As he ended the call, the slightly shocked expression that had emerged on Spike's face during the conversation split into an amused grin. "Did you hear that, Bee?" he laughed. "The Uber-Geek thinks the Power Princess is a hottie! Holy scrap, I don't know where that's going, but I'm sure not gonna let Chip hear the end of it!"

"You did it again," Bumblebee scolded, his attention still riveted on the television program he had tuned in. "Honestly, you swear more than I do."

"Bee, a nun swears more than you do," Spike answered absently, while still considering all the ways he could tease his old friend Chip Chase, eligible bachelor and CEO of Quantum Laboratories, about asking Astoria Carlton-Ritz, heiress and CEO of Hybrid Technologies, on a date.

"Well, darn it to heck and phooey on you!" Bumblebee exclaimed in a complete and utter foul-language fail. Then, moving over slightly to give his co-host room, he pointed at the monitor and said, "Anyway, check this out. Slamdance is out there doing live interviews with some of the people we just took on the backstage tour."

O.O.O

"...well, thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan," Slamdance was saying with all the poise of a professional telejournalist. "I certainly hope you enjoy the rest of the show just as much. And how about you, young lady?" he asked, turning to a teenaged girl who was attending with her parents. "What's your name?"

"Hi," the redheaded girl said to the camera, not smiling in an obvious attempt to hide a mouth full of braces. "My name's Marissa. Uh, Faireborn." She almost grinned, then, two seconds later, an expression of alarm inexplicably dawned on her face. She glanced at her parents with a wide-eyed, desperately apologetic look, as if she'd just realized she'd blurted out something that maybe she shouldn't have said.

Her parents, in turn, shot each other uncomfortable glances, perhaps at the thought of being interviewed, or perhaps over something else entirely.

In an attempt to keep the conversation rolling, Slamdance, who noticed her discomfort, calmly asked the teenager a neutral question. "Well, Marissa, had you ever met an Autobot before today?"

"No," she answered a little hastily, "but I've always wanted to." In typical teenaged fashion, now that she seemed to have embarrassed herself somehow, she tried to cover by making herself sound more self-assured than she really was. "You know, this whole thing has been so awesome that it makes me want to enlist in Earth Defense Command so I can work with the Autobots when I graduate!"

"Actually," her father suddenly interrupted before the girl could say anything more, "I think she wants to _be_ an Autobot when she grows up."

Any remaining shred of poise instantly evaporated, giving way to the embarrassed horror most teenagers display around their parents. "DAD!" Marissa shrieked, darting away from the camera in a humiliated flash.

Slamdance, professional that he was, did not laugh, but he was the only one. "Ah. And these fine folks must be your parents?" he asked, though Marissa had already hidden herself behind some of the other attendees and was not answering.

The man, who was dark-haired and built like an Army Ranger, seemed hesitant to give his name out live on national television, but eventually shrugged and introduced himself. "Um, yeah, Marissa's our daughter. I'm Dashiell. Dashiell Faireborn. This is Alison," he said, indicating the rather voluptuous woman on his arm.

"When you were on the tour, you mentioned to our hosts that you've come all the way across the country to see the show tonight. Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share?" Slamdance prompted.

"Well, Dashiell and I have actually seen Autobots in action before," Alison responded smoothly, obviously much more at ease in front of the camera, "but it was certainly no time to talk and get to know you. So it's nice to see you all now in a much more peaceful and personable setting."

"Well, I hope you have a wonderful time tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Faireborn, and Marissa, too. And how about you, sir?" Slamdance asked another man, who was incongruously wearing what appeared to be a green knit stocking cap that he occasionally fidgeted with, as if he wanted to pull it down over his face entirely, like a mask. "What's your name?"

He seemed even more hesitant to give out his name than Dashiell Faireborn had. "Uh, Wayne Sneeden," he eventually muttered, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was right then.

"Well, Mr. Sneeden," Slamdance asked, "why don't you tell us who is your favorite dancer tonight?"

"Um … the red one."

O.O.O

A short while later, Dashiell Faireborn strode along the stadium corridor leading to the mens' room after his family had finished the interview and found their seats. Since there was still about fifteen minutes to go before the opening act began, he was taking in the opportunity to see absolutely everything he could see in Autzen Stadium. When he reached the mens' room, though, he did not go inside, but instead quickly ducked away from the growing crowd, slipping down a side hallway and into a service door alcove.

Flipping open the face on his expensive-looking watch, he revealed a small array of miniature buttons and a tiny monitor. "Flint to General Hawk," he spoke into the device. "Flint to General Hawk. Come in, please."

A tinny voice emerged from the communicator's miniature speaker as the screen focused on a face that was not, in fact, General Hawk's. "Breaker here. I copy you, Flint, or whatever your name happens to be today."

Dashiell Faireborn, codename Flint, grimaced slightly at this. "Weren't exactly expecting to have a camera shoved in our face like that. We coached Marissa not to use our real names before we got here, but I think she just lost it when they put her on the spot. Not much else we could do but roll with it at that point. Beach Head followed our lead, but he's pretty pissed about it right now. Anyway, I need to report to General Hawk."

"General's on his way." There was a crackle on the line that was definitely not static. It sounded distinctly like the casual pop and snap of bubble gum. "How's the surveillance going?"

"We just completed the backstage tour," the man known as Flint answered.

"Yeah, actually saw Beach Head's pretty mug on TV just a little bit ago. Oh, nice suit, by the way," Breaker teased, pausing to blow a watermelon-pink bubble before adding with a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows,"Damn fine dress Lady Jaye was almost wearing, too. So, the kid wants to be an Autobot when she grows up, huh?"

Flint smiled. "You should've seen her when we were backstage meeting some of the Autobots. She went completely gaga. I think Marissa just found her life's calling because I've never seen her this intent on anything, and that's saying a lot, you know. Earth Defense Command isn't quite GI Joe, in my humble opinion, but what can you do?"

"I dunno. Embarrass your daughter on national television, maybe?" _Pop. Crackle._

"It got her off camera before she said anything else she shouldn't, didn't it? Anyway, I'm her father," Flint laughed. "Parents are _supposed_ to embarrass their teenage children. I think there's a law about it somewhere. Look it up."

"Oh, I believe you. My parents were sticklers for obeying the letter of that law when I was sixteen, too. Always going on like I had a bad gum-chewing habit, for some strange reason." _Snap. Pop._ "Oops, here comes the General. Breaker out."

"General Hawk here," came a new voice as the General's image filled the tiny screen. "Report."

"We've been all over this stadium, including the backstage tour," Flint informed his superior officer evenly. "So far, our cover of just being average civilians is holding, and if any of the Autobots recognized us from that time in L.A., they haven't mentioned it." Punching a few of the tiny buttons in his communicator, he added, "I'm transmitting the images we recorded now, but honestly, sir, we found nothing that seemed concerning."

"Mainframe reports all the A/V equipment is either Autobot technology, or from Starlight Music," the General answered, "and the only Extensive equipment he saw at all was a terminal patching in to the telecomm system so they could get instant updates when the voting begins. There's some Autobots operating a few of the systems, but the rest of the crew is either from Starlight or from the network that picked up the show, and however it happened, the network isn't a known Extensive affiliate. There's no sign of anything out of the ordinary."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Flint offered the General his informed opinion. "We're not able to get into the VIP box to ascertain things up there, but honestly, sir, it looks like the fang gang went legit on this one."

"Don't worry about accessing the VIP box," General Hawk replied. "It's covered. But for being as open as they are, it's surprisingly hard to gather intelligence on the Autobots. Still, from what we can tell, they have no real idea of the connection between Extensive Enterprises and COBRA. I think it's just what it looks like: they hired Extensive as nothing more than a legitimate production partner. But how did they manage to block Extensive from exerting any control at all over the broadcast? They must have one hell of a business mind on their end to negotiate that kind of deal."

"I'd have to agree," Flint nodded. "And at the end of the day, the Autobots are good people, or whatever you want to call them. I can't imagine that they would knowingly agree to anything that ultimately put money in COBRA's pocket."

"If there's anything fishy going on there," General Hawk agreed, "it's not with the Autobots' knowledge. Keep your eyes open just in case. Oh, and Flint?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Enjoy the show. Do you have any idea how many Joes actually tried to bribe me to get their hands on those backstage passes?"

"I dunno ... seven?"

"Try twenty-three."

O.O.O

Two minutes to go before the first notes of the opening act. Slamdance had wrapped up his pre-show recap and live interviews with the audience and with various Autobots who had a behind-the-scenes hand servo in the show. Jem and the Holograms were making their way from their dressing room to the outdoor stage to warm up the audience with their truly outrageous mini-concert. And, backstage in the high-ceilinged hallway leading to the entrance to the field, Prowl was just about ready to have a major neural meltdown.

Just as Jazz had predicted, the moment the cameras started rolling, broadcasting live while recording the night's events for the upcoming home video release, the contestants had instantly switched into their on-screen personas. Lost in his delusion that all would be well this evening, Prowl simply hadn't been prepared to handle the chaos at all gracefully.

"Ironhide! Where's Chromia?" the harried stage manager yelled as he desperately tried to enforce some semblance of order on the gaggle of contestants, most of whom were paying little or no attention to him whatsoever. Waving his data pad furiously, he almost shouted, "If she misses your cue, she misses your cue! I'm not rearranging things just because she feels like - Eject! I don't care if this _is_ a football stadium, stop that now before you trip someone! You know better - Sunstreaker! Hot Rod! Both of you, calm down and separate NOW! Elita, Firestar, will you please stop gabbing for a moment and listen to - What?" Grabbing the side of his helm over his audio receptor, Prowl frantically asked into his communicator, "Repeat that? Jem and the Holograms are on? Good! At least we've started on schedule! Prowl out! Now where's my - Powerglide, this staging area is for contestants only, I'm going to have to ask you to leave! Blaster, stop watching the Holograms and pay attention for just one nanoklik! Has anyone seen my - Springer, Arcee, for Primus's sake, not in the hall, please! Will everyone just settle a moment? I need to - Eject! Didn't I tell you that you were going to trip someone? You have exactly five minutes to help Moonracer polish out the scratches you just put in her knees! Rewind, go help him, and no, I don't care that you had nothing to do with it! Bluestreak, shut up! I need to - Gah! Blurr, SLOW DOWN!"

Jazz, the truly guilty party in all this, chose that moment to pretend to sneak casually past Prowl, using an exaggerated, Loony Tunes-esque tiptoe that was guaranteed to attract attention. And it did. The furious Police 'Bot whirled on his friend and leveled him with a glare that all but screamed,_ I am going to scatter your atoms from here to Cybertron and back for this!_

Jazz just grinned innocently, giving Prowl an encouraging two thumb servos up.

Prowl very nearly threw his data pad at Jazz's cranium.

The cameras captured it all for posterity.

O.O.O

Jem and the Holograms finished their half-hour set and left the stage. Then, the lights changed. For a moment, everything went dark, save for a single spotlight shining on the Iacon Trophy, casting a thousand shards of glimmering golden light throughout the stadium.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Spike's voice announced over the sound system. "Welcome to the final competition of _Dancing with the Autobots!_"

"Tonight," Bumblebee's voice added, "Cybertron's finest dancers will have the chance to claim the Iacon Trophy! And now, ladies and gentlemen, the extravaganza you've all been waiting for!"

It was Optimus Prime's voice that resonated over the sound system, acting as Prime, the Autobot leader, to give the final cue before becoming Optimus, the competitive dancer. "Autobots!" he commanded. "Transform, and roll out!"

In a thunderous rumble of finely-tuned engines and the squeal of multiple tires, every Autobot competitor with a vehicular mode raced out of the curtained tunnel, while those who were not vehicle-capable rode inside or surfed on the hood of one of the other dancers. The capacity crowd roared its deafening approval as the contestants circled the field twice before the dancers took the stage, and the hosts and judges took their places.

The showy, glamourous, three-hour extravaganza that was the final competition of _Dancing with the Autobots _had begun.

O.O.O

_Continued in Chapter 9..._


	9. And the Winners Are

**Author's note:**__I did not know who the winners would be when I began to write this story. I picked the first, second, and third place winners based on which of my drawings of the dancers posted in my deviantART gallery (follow the link in my profile) accumulated the most views and favorites as I wrote this. Of course, I can't say the 'voting' was entirely fair, since I never got a picture of Jazz's squad posted. Let's blame Soundwave for jamming that transmission.

O.O.O

_**Dancing with the Autobots**_

Chapter 9: And The Winners Are ...

O.O.O

"Above all else," Megatron barked as the Decepticons rode the _Victory's_ telescoping docking tower towards the surface of the Pacific Ocean, "I want that device the Autobots are so foolishly trying to pass off as a simple trophy! Destroy any Autobot and crush any human that gets in your way!"

Starscream silently mouthed along with Megatron's tirade disinterestedly, as if that particular sport had long since lost its challenge to him. Really, if the 'device' were as valuable as Megatron claimed, why would the Autobots even bother with showing it on national, even global, television and try to pass it off as something else entirely? Why not do something silly like, oh, perhaps just hide it and not let anyone know they had it in the first place? Autobots were a bunch of imbeciles, true, but even they deserved more credit than that.

"Any questions?" Megatron finally snapped at the end of his set of vague instructions.

"Uh, yeah," Rumble hedged a moment later, just when it started to look like no one was going to speak up. "Just where is this Ozzin Stadium place, anyway?"

Megatron scowled dangerously, but he did not answer. He tossed a commanding look at Soundwave, who, surprisingly, just shook his head and did not answer, either.

Uncharacteristically, Megatron gaped for a long moment. "Of all the ..!" he finally blurted, slamming his hand against the STOP button and then furiously jamming a finger servo at the DOWN key.

"Earth city of Eugene, state of Oregon, United States of America," Starscream recited in such a bored monotone that he almost sounded like Soundwave for a moment. It was worth noting that he chose to speak up several long and obvious moments after Megatron had been caught flat-footed. "The precise coordinates of Autzen Stadium are forty-four point zero five eight three three degrees North, one-twenty-three point zero six eight six one degrees West." He flashed a smarmy, condescending grin as everyone else just stared at him stupidly. "Honestly, Rumble, try looking things up sometime. An informed leader is a victorious leader, after all."

Shooting a paint-peeling glare at Starscream, who just shrugged and inspected his finger servos with casual interest, Megatron slammed the STOP button one more time and turned the docking tower once again into an ascent towards the surface.

O.O.O

After Jem and the Holograms's opening act, all the contestants together had started the show with one spectacular, noncompetitive number. At this time, four entries had already performed and received their critique from the judges, which would count for forty percent of their final results: Optimus and Elita, Ironhide and Chromia (who did not miss her cue despite Prowl's initial panic), Springer and Arcee, and Firestar and Inferno.

Brick Springstern took the stage for twenty minutes before intermission, or 'halftime' as Eject insisted on calling it. Most of the Autobots watched the concert, singing along and tapping their tarsal plates with the catchy beat. Every 'Bot was enjoying him- or herself immensely this evening, except for Prowl, who was frantically trying to break up a four-way backstage brawl that Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Hot Rod, and Bluestreak had purposely staged without offering him any warning.

"So," Slamdance asked a seemingly random audience member when the concert was over, the fifth such interview he'd conducted during the show's breaks. "What's your name, sir?"

"Footloo- I mean, uh," the man hesitated slightly, giving the camera an unreadable glance. "I mean, wow, these dancing Autobots are really footloose and talented! Awesome! That quickstep was something else! I'm enjoying the hell out of myself tonight! Woo-hoo!"

"And you, ma'am?" Slamdance asked the red-haired woman seated next to him. "Your name is ..?"

"Well, fiddle dee-dee, mah name is Scarlett," she answered the Autobot journalist in a thick, Southern accent, while batting her eyelashes guilelessly.

"Er, Scarlett what?" Slamdance asked in confusion, having never seen _Gone with the Wind_.

"Just Scarlett for now," she replied, with markedly less accent this time. "And I'm having a great time here tonight, too."

"I see," Slamdance nodded slightly, though for half a nanoklik, he seemed distracted, almost as if he was listening to something only he could hear, perhaps his private communicator or something like it. Then he smiled and nodded slightly, ending the interview. "Well, I hope the two of you enjoy the rest of the show!"

O.O.O

While Slamdance continued his interviews, Optimus took the opportunity of intermission to call Ultra Magnus and see how things were running in Metroplex, while Springer, who took some measure of sympathy on the harried Prowl, decided to check the status of the security around the stadium.

"So far, so good," Topspin was telling Springer over the comm link. "Actually, it's kinda disappointing that nothing's happening, you know?"

"Look, I know how bad you guys want to punch someone, but with all the humans here, I'd rather it stays nice and calm tonight," Springer answered. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw a bright streak of bluish afterimages that he recognized as Blurr, rushing into the empty maintenance room where he and Arcee had gone to find a quiet place to step out of character and make the radio call. While always twitchy and high-strung, Blurr didn't seem alarmed or upset as he stopped for a moment to whisper something into Arcee's audio receptor before dashing away again at the speed of sound. Springer just mentally filed the encounter away for later and continued the security check. "I just want to be sure that someone went through the parking lot to – MMMP!"

Focused on issuing orders, Springer was caught completely off guard when Arcee unexpectedly pounced on him hard enough to knock him backward into the wall, wrapped her arms around his neck struts, and started kissing him passionately. Not that he was one to complain whenever he got an armful of fembot out of the deal, but still, surprise made him try to ask, "Mrrp? Wmff?"

"Cmr!" Arcee tried to explain without breaking the kiss.

"Wt?"

Quickly, Arcee pulled back just long enough to answer, "Blurr just told me a camera crew's coming!"

"Oh!" Springer exclaimed, finally understanding. Glancing down the direction that Blurr had appeared from, he just caught a glimpse of a cameraman and two boom operators heading their way, roaming the backstage area to hopefully catch more action for the home video release. Arcee was telling him to hurry up and get back in character before they were found. "Topspin, carry on!" he whispered quickly into his communicator.

"What?" Topspin sounded baffled by the abrupt change in the conversation. "What's going on?"

"Stand by!" Springer blurted, then grabbed Arcee and kissed her madly just half a nanoklik before the camera crew noticed them.

"Wha- _stand by?_ Springer?" Topspin asked in confusion over the forgotten communicator. "Springer?" he demanded again, his tone changing to one of worry when his commanding officer didn't answer right away. "What's going on there? Do you need assistance? And what in the Pit am I _hearing?_"

O.O.O

After intermission, the human instructors who had guided the Autobots to the finals put on their own extravagant exhibition number. Then, the last three teams danced for the competition: Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, Blurr and Moonracer, and finally, Jazz's squad.

"Get out your cell phones and get ready to vote!" Spike announced to the stadium and the audience at home. "Lines will be opening up momentarily, and you will have a half-hour window to show your support for your favorite dancers tonight!" He gestured to the competitors, all of whom were arranged in a row on the stage behind him and Bumblebee. "At the end of that half-hour, we'll have a live, instant tally that will tell us who, of all these talented performers, will have the honor of taking home the Iacon Trophy!"

"While the votes come in, we will have an amazing, daring air show performed by our own Aerialbots," Bumblebee continued, "as a backdrop to a very special performance by Jem and the Holograms with Brick Springstern! But first, here are the numbers to text your votes! If you're voting for Optimus Prime and Elita One, text the letters OPxEO to -"

A look of horror abruptly crossed Bumblebee's faceplate. Cutting himself off in mid-sentence, he grabbed his helm over his audio receptor, where the receiver circuit of his communicator was located, and listened intently for two nanokliks. Most of the Autobots lined up behind their hosts mirrored this shocked action.

Spike, who didn't have a built-in comm link like the Autobots did, nonetheless recognized the reaction to a general emergency broadcast when he saw one. He was well into signaling the camera crew of the impending danger when Bumblebee blurted, "Decepticons incoming!"

O.O.O

"We see them!" Silverbolt yelled into the general communicator link. He and his brothers had already taken to the sky as part of the air show, just moments before Broadside had spotted the incoming assault wave and sounded the alarm. "It looks like the entire Decepticon force! Moving to intercept!"

O.O.O

"Sending backup!" Ultra Magnus responded from Metroplex, where the alert had also been received. "Sky Lynx, break orbit and assist, now! Pipes!" he ordered to the little Minibot next to him, "I don't care what it takes to convince them, just get the Dinobots on Skyfire and dispatch them immediately!"

"That's easy!" Pipes answered, already transformed and peeling out towards the Dinobot Lair. "All I have to do is promise them they're going to star in one of Kup's war stories, and they'll probably trample me trying to be the one who gets on board first!"

O.O.O

"Silverbolt!" Optimus Prime barked into his communicator. "If the Constructicons form Devastator, then he is your priority! Form Superion and let us handle the rest! Goodyear Blimp – do you copy? Get out of here NOW! Everyone else, there are fifty-four thousand humans in this stadium that need protecting!"

O.O.O

Admirably never breaking character, Tracks called out, "Do pardon me, darling," before jumping into action. If there was going to be any sort of fighting tonight, Tracks's first responsibility was to scoop Carly up and hustle her off the field to the relative safety of the stadium's locker room.

O.O.O

"Wreckers!" Springer shouted a little too gleefully into his team's private channel as he drew one of his rotor-swords from its hidden sheath on his back, "Looks like we get to punch someone after all!"

O.O.O

"WHAT?" Cobra Commander shrieked furiously at his television. "No, no, NO!" he wailed, banging his fists on his desk. " Announce the numbers! People can't cast their votes if they don't know the numbers! AAARGH! We won't make any profit if people can't vote!"

Tomax and Xamot glanced nervously at one another, and very carefully, very quietly, backed slowly out of the room.

O.O.O

Most of the audience watched in fascinated awe when the aerial dogfights began. A few people, those who realized the fighting was in earnest, screamed in terror, but were immediately shushed by the many cheering people around them who thought this was part of the air show.

The dogfighting lasted for less than a minute before several of the Seekers slipped past the Aerialbots and, transforming, reached the stadium field. A few more screams went up, but were drowned out by a roar of booing and hissing as the majority of the audience expressed their feelings about Decepticons as if they were watching a bad melodrama.

A few attendees, who truly realized what was happening, ran for the exits. A few more level-headed audience members, who also realized what was happening, tried to act as crowd control just in case panic broke out.

Three audience members forgot their cover entirely, and leapt onto the field screaming, "YO, JOE!" at the top of their lungs.

O.O.O

A horrible, booming collision that echoed for miles immediately explained how the Seekers had gotten through the Aerialbots's defensive perimeter: as predicted, the Constructicons had merged to form Devastator, and the Aerialbots had responded by forming Superion. The giant Autobot had rammed the Decepticon combiner right out of the sky, trying to force him towards the rural farmland to the north of the city, where they could fight with less risk to the human population.

Skywarp landed on the field first, and, much to the confusion of the Autobots, started snapping his finger servos in a persistent, almost musical rhythm as the other Seekers quickly fell into position around him. "You stink like a school of Sharkticons!" he challenged as the Decepticons backing him took up the same snapping rhythm. "Hand over the Iacon Trophy, now!"

Instead of moving to attack, though, the Seekers all bizarrely threw their arms towards the sky and swung a leg up, throwing themselves into tight twirls that ended in synchronized poses of lunging towards their foes. It looked surprisingly like dancing, much to the delight of the cheering audience, and for one glorious moment, Skywarp's tactical plan of assault did, indeed, completely baffle the Autobots.

Jazz, whose television-watching habits could be rivaled by those of the Junkions themselves, was the only one who recognized the choreography, but he recognized it instantly: It was the opening salvo of the first battle danced between two rival street gangs in the 1961 Oscar-winning movie, _West Side Story._

They were being challenged by a scene from a musical.

Offended that such a classic had been co-opted by the Decepticons, Jazz shouted back, "You Seekers ain't no _Jets!_" He was so insulted that he didn't even feel obligated to respond with the Sharks gang's answering pirouette; he just grabbed his gun and started blasting.

Natalie Wood, rest in peace, was quickly avenged.

O.O.O

"Megatron!" Optimus Prime nearly snarled as his lifelong nemesis landed on the field before him. Aiming his ion blaster steadily between Megatron's optics, he demanded, "What could you possibly want this time? There's nothing for you here!"

"The naive facade doesn't suit you, Prime!" Megatron answered, aiming his cannon at his foe with equal calm. "You know exactly what I want!"

Optimus simply shrugged one shoulder. "Actually, no, I really don't. Not unless you've come for dancing lessons?" At times like this, he almost wished he didn't wear the mask to protect his face. He would have loved to see Megatron's reaction to the smarmy grin he was wearing beneath it. "I'm sure Grimlock will be more than happy to teach you some fancy footwork."

"I need no lessons to claim that-"

Megatron's tirade was suddenly interrupted by several high-pitched battle-cries of "CYBERTRON!" The Decepticon leader had no time to react and barely any time to even look around before he was hit and went down hard, tackled in four different directions by four rather violent femmes.

"What the ..?" Optimus asked no one in particular, unable to do much more than just stare in surprise for a moment. He hadn't been expecting this tactic, but Elita, Firestar, Chromia, and Moonracer were certainly making a go of it. A furiously cursing Megatron was pinned faceplate-down on the ground, and the femmes were beating the absolute scrap out of him. "Er … careful!" Optimus finally said, stepping forward to help. "Let me-"

Elita's head snapped up from the fray for a moment, just long enough to shout, "Back off, Optimus!"

Optimus Prime was respected by Autobot and Decepticon alike for the depth and breadth of the wisdom that had come to him through nine million years of being the Prime. This deep and profound wisdom informed him now that there was not much he could do when his sparkmate yelled at him like that, other than to somewhat sheepishly answer, "Yes, dear."

O.O.O

Not unexpectedly, Rumble and Frenzy made a beeline for Rewind and Eject, since the two Decepticon punks were just smart enough to know to take on someone their own size when the opportunity presented itself. Whenever Blaster was sighted in a battle, they could count on their favorite punching-bags to be nearby.

What they hadn't counted on was Slamdance. Since they hadn't been watching the journalist's pre-show interviews, they simply had not known of his recent arrival to Earth. As it turned out, Slamdance really did not appreciate anyone besides himself picking on his little brothers, and since he was actually a gestalt of the two cassettes Grandslam and Raindance, it made him roughly twice the size of Rumble and Frenzy.

Rumble and Frenzy, busy slugging it out with their Autobot counterparts, had forgotten all about this. They only remembered it exactly one-tenth of a nanoklik after Slamdance grabbed each one of them by the cranium. Then he simply slammed their two skull housings together, dropped them like broken toys, and that was the end of that.

O.O.O

The Seekers, having failed in their West Side Jet Initiative, were hard-pressed for a second act. In the back of his mind, while blasting away at the onslaught of better-rehearsed Autobots, Skywarp was blaming the failure on Soundwave for not providing danceable music at the proper moment.

O.O.O

While the Minibots sniped the Decepticons from their gunnery stations around the top of the stadium, the show's security team, otherwise known as the Wreckers, gleefully plowed into the threat in a full frontal assault, guns blazing, shouting some rather creative battle cries and making a few last-minute wagers on the body count.

Leading the attack, of course, was Springer, sword in one hand and blaster in the other. Or at least, the thing leading the charge resembled Springer, but gone as the jovial, happy-go-lucky Triple-Changer that everyone knew and loved. In its place was something terrifying. The fearsome expression on his faceplate was nothing short of deadly as he cut down Decepticons like so much tissue paper, taking solid blows without even flinching, returning the blows with twice the fury. There was no room for doubt in anyone's mind why this one-mech wave of destruction had been named the leader of the Wreckers.

Arcee was right behind him, a pistol in each hand, covering his vulnerable back. Though the petite femme was not technically on the active duty roster of the Wreckers, the two of them fought together with a graceful fluidity that was almost beautiful to watch as they forced the Decepticons back, step by step. She moved when he moved, she spun when he spun, each aimed and fired where the other could not, all in the utter silence that came from complete trust in one's partner.

The tango, it seemed, was just a warmup. This was nothing short of ballet.

O.O.O

"On my mark!" Prowl barked at the small group of Autobots that were going to strike from behind while the Wreckers attacked from the front. "Weapons, NOW!" With his blasters clearing the way, Prowl led the charge across the field, then, at the last moment, transformed and started driving as wildly as he could. Skidding right and left in tight coordination, the five drivers knocked nearly every Decepticon on the field right off their foot servos and, in seconds, handed the Autobots the tactical advantage.

It would be the next day before it finally occurred to Prowl that his little strike force had consisted of Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Hot Rod, and Bluestreak, and, oddly enough, they had all seemed to be getting along just fine.

O.O.O

Unsure what else to do, Optimus just stared rather forlornly at the bizarre fight that was going on at his feet. Firestar had pinned Megatron's cannon arm, and the rest of the femmes were reveling in pounding the violently swearing Decepticon leader into the ground. Every time he tried to get up, they just knocked him right back down that much harder. The femmes didn't seem to need any help, but, nonetheless, Optimus felt he should keep his gun at the ready just in case Megatron somehow managed to get the upper hand.

Not that it seemed very likely.

Prime glanced up when he noticed someone running towards him. It was Ironhide, charging to the rescue after having swatted himself a few Insecticons, but slowing down with a very baffled expression on his faceplate when he truly took in the situation. "Uh ..." the Weapons Specialist managed after a long and confused moment. "Is that ... is that Megatron under there?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of kicking, punching, shouting femmes.

"It is," Optimus nodded quietly.

"Oh. Well, they're really, um," Ironhide tried again, "really kicking the scrap outta him, aren't they?"

"Yes," the Autobot leader sighed, "they are."

"No offense or nothing, but how come you ain't-"

"They won't LET me!" Optimus finally blurted in frustration. Fortunately he didn't notice as Ironhide's momentary shock quickly dissolved into an expression of amusement as he complained, "Elita said something about Megatron having to admit he got his aft handed to him by a bunch of femmes on national television. She told me not to interfere with their big moment, so here I am, standing guard because I just don't know what else I'm supposed to do."

Ironhide couldn't help but laugh out loud at this. True, it seemed a bit at odds for anyone to be laughing so heartily in the middle of a battle like this, but obviously the femmes had their particular fight completely under their control. "Well, _Prime_, if Elita can make you back out of a fight with ol' Megatron here, then Jazz would say she's definitely got you wrapped around her little finger servo."

"Both little fingers," Optimus responded promptly, despite the situation. "I'm a contortionist that way."

Ironhide laughed again. "Gee, I don't know nothing about _that_ at all," he joked with an amused glance at Chromia, who was currently trying to break Megatron's knee joint while simultaneously kicking him in the cranial housing. "But I do know that when Elita and her gals are handing Megatron the pounding of his life, there's definitely something you can do besides just stand there."

"Oh?" Optimus asked cautiously, noting the amusement in Ironhide's voice. "And that is ..?"

"Cheer 'em on!" Ironhide exclaimed, turning to the fight and clapping his hand servos in wild approval. "Ya-HOO! My LADIES! Bust his Decepti-chops for crashing our party! That's the spirit, Chromia! Rip his optics out, Firestar!"

For just a moment, Optimus Prime stared in complete bemusement. Then he decided, why not? Maybe Ironhide was on to something. Shrugging, he threw decorum to the wind and cheered, "Bite him harder, Moonracer!"

O.O.O

In the midst of all this, Starscream quietly landed on the field near the stage, deliberately not firing any weapons, charging into battle, or in any other way attracting attention to himself.

There was the so-called Iacon Trophy, just a few steps away. Megatron's precious prize was simply sitting on its pedestal, alone and unguarded. Obviously, the Autobots either didn't care or had forgotten all about it. Well, slag it, what better proof of the valueless nature of the trophy could anyone ask for?

Still, Starscream was committed to seeing this farce through to the end, so, purposefully striding across the stage, he unceremoniously snatched the prize from its display stand. As he did, he noticed he was being charged by a very determined Bumblebee, who, oddly, had a bit of red fabric tied around his neck strut. Ordinarily, Starscream had no fear of the Minibots, but he'd discovered the hard way that this particular Minibot had learned to go for the knee joints. Not wanting to go through the minor pain and major embarrassment of getting knocked down and out by the little pipsqueak yet again, he rocketed himself into the sky and transformed before Bumblebee could complete the tackle. "This is Starscream," he said into his communications link. "I have acquired the trophy and am returning to - wait ... what's happening?"

O.O.O

"What's happening?" Prowl demanded of Grapple, who had stopped in the middle of the fight to stare at his beautiful stage with a healthy dose of confusion and a pinch of fear.

The stage was transforming.

"I ... I don't ..." Grapple stammered. "I didn't ..."

Panels folded in on themselves, archways became arms, joists became legs, lighting systems became a face, and the stage began to stand on its own two gigantic feet.

"Are you kidding me?" This came from Hot Rod, who was staring up at the giant robot with just as much wonder and confusion as Grapple. "Why in the name of Cybertron did you have Vector Sigma give your stage _life?_"

"I ... I didn't," Grapple repeated faintly.

"Well, it's ... oh." Prowl stopped and nodded as a different possibility occurred to his logical brain. "A hologram. Hound?" he called, half turning to look for the Autobot's master of illusions. He flinched visibly when he realized the mech in question was standing only a step behind him, looking just as baffled as everyone else.

"Wasn't me," Hound said with a shake of his head and a show of empty hand servos.

"Oh." Prowl looked vaguely ill for a moment, then hurried back several steps with everyone else as the now fully-transformed stage, towering as tall as the stadium itself, lumbered towards the panicked scramble of retreating Decepticons. "Then let me say it again. What's happening?"

O.O.O

"What's happening?" Ultra Magnus demanded as the Technobots frantically punched buttons and rerouted processes, trying to get ahead of the frenzied electronic activity that was rocketing through Teletraan-2 long enough to identify it.

"I don't know!" Lightspeed answered distractedly. "It's this Synergy software! It's doing something that we didn't program it to do, but it's going too fast to analyze!"

"Why is it doing anything at all?" Magnus tried not to snap, knowing that yelling wouldn't help the situation. "Shut it down! The show is over and we're in the middle of a battle! Special effects are -"

"Uh ... guys?" Nosecone interrupted, pointing to the video monitor that gave them Skyspy's aerial surveillance of Autzen Stadium. "Who's that big mech, and where did he come from?"

Nearly all sound in the Command Center screeched to a halt as the Autobots stopped to stare stupidly, for several long seconds, at the image of the mysterious giant on the monitor. Then, almost as one, they turned to look at Teletraan-2 and the brightly flashing lights that indicated the Synergy program's rapid, unexplained activity.

Teletraan-2 had detected the threat to the Autobots, and Synergy, it seemed, had responded.

"Cool," Strafe commented.

"I think I agree with Strafe," Magnus assessed slowly, smiling as the Decepticons on the monitor tripped and crashed into one another in their chaotic attempt to flee from their unexpectedly gigantic, and entirely holographic, opponent. "Let's let the program run a little while longer, shall we?"

"Let it run?" Strafe echoed with a devilish grin. "Are you kidding me? I'm going to do more than just that. I'm totally going to pirate a copy!"

O.O.O

Almost as quickly as it had begun, the attack was over. With the Decepticons fled, the mysterious giant unfolded himself, laid back down into the shape of a stage, and never moved again.

"Is everyone all right?" Optimus demanded quickly, surveying the stadium quickly to see if any of his Autobots had been wounded. There were some bangs and scrapes, and Steeljaw was fairly scratched up from his catfight with Ravage, but from what he could see, the most serious injury seemed to be that one of the Insecticons had taken a bite out of Wheeljack's elbow.

Though Megatron had finally regained his footing and retreated with the other Decepticons, the four femmes who had opened up a can of whoop-aft on him were still sprawled on the ground in entirely indecorous positions, amped up on the Cybertonian version of adrenaline and laughing like lunatics.

The three humans who had shouted their strange battle-cry and tried to join the fight were now being sheepishly escorted back to their seats by a vaguely amused Hoist.

Jazz and Blaster stood a little apart from the cluster of slightly bemused Autobots. Though their voices were pitched too low to be heard, judging by their wild gesticulations, they were discussing something with a lot of feeling behind it. It was an even wager what their discussion was about.

Prowl was on his communicator with the Autobots who were giving chase to make sure the Decepticons didn't loop back; Sky Lynx had re-entered the atmosphere and arrived just in time to join the Aerialbots in this pursuit.

A little off to one side, the Wreckers were still on alert, just in case the Decepticons had left anyone or anything behind as a surprise, but they, too, seemed to slowly be coming down off their Cyber-adrenaline rush. Their team leader himself was standing unnaturally still, head down, weapons in his hands as he stared intently at the ground. Arcee patiently had one supportive hand resting lightly on his thick forearm, while Hot Rod stood a few steps away, looking slightly concerned but saying nothing. Then, abruptly, Springer sheathed his sword and put his blaster away, and the jovial grin was back on his faceplate and the merry twinkle was back in his optic as if they had never left. "Well," he chuckled, "that was fun and entertaining. Anyone know what that was all about?"

Springer's rare ability to transform himself into two different alt-modes was nothing compared to his frightening ability to transform his personality between cheerful nice guy and cold-fueled killer on a moment's notice.

"Nobody knows," Hot Rod answered his friend with a shrug. "But the crowd loved it. Listen to them cheering!"

Just then, a bright streak of blue skidded to a halt in their midst, and Blurr, gesturing even more wildly than Jazz, blurted, "Theytookthetrophy! TheDecepticonsmusthavetakenit! Idon'tknowhytheytookitbuttheydid!"

"Blurr! Slow down!" Optimus ordered, waving his hands futilely. "Why would the Decepticons take the trophy?"

"Idon'tknowIreallyreallyreallydon'tknow! It'sjustnothere! There'snowhereelseitcouldhavegone!"

"He's right, if he said what I think he said," Bumblebee interjected, pointing towards the sky. "I saw Starscream fly away with the trophy myself, and then they all took off and followed him. So ... what do we do now?"

"We're gonna spin it!" Jazz suddenly exclaimed, appearing out of practically nowhere to shovel the little Minibot firmly towards the stage.

"Spin it?" Bumblebee squeaked in surprised confusion.

"Yeah, spin it, little spin doctor," Jazz explained hurriedly. "You're still the host. Most of the crowd thinks that whole shebang just now was part of the show. Say whatever you have to, but don't let nobody start to think otherwise! Just work the crowd long enough to buy me an' Blaster half a breem to figure out how to salvage somethin' outta this. Cybertron's gonna fall into the Pit itself before we let the 'Cons spoil our fun tonight!"

O.O.O

"Judges! Over here!" Blaster ordered as Bumblebee took the stage and had the crowd roaring its approval of the little 'surprise exhibition' within moments. "Spike, you too. Oh, scrap, where's Carly?"

"She's all right," Spike answered, waving his phone to show that he was speaking to his wife at that very moment. "Tracks shoved her in the locker room where it was safe, but she's on her way now."

"Okay, good," Blaster nodded. "We think we got a plan. Hound, get your aft over here, we need you too if we're gonna make this work. Jazz, what you got for us?"

Holding up his index finger in a 'hang on one nanoklik' gesture, Jazz instead spoke rapidly into his private communicator. "You there? It's me, man, it's Jazz. Yeah, I know!" he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. "I know no votes came in over the phones! The 'Cons cut Bee off before he could announce the numbers! What I need to know is if anyone out there remembered they could also vote by credit card on the official website! ... Uh huh ... uh huh ... Well, it's better than nothin'. Yeah, they were prob'ly too busy watchin' the action to even think about votin'. There enough votes to tell us first, second, an' third place? ... uh huh ... yeah ... yeah, I kinda figured. Okay, thanks, man, it's all we got an' we're gonna roll with it. Jazz out. All righty, guys," he said, turning to everyone else, "We got us a few thousand votes off the 'net an' we're gonna use that to determine the winners, 'kay?"

O.O.O

"...and we truly thank everyone for your enthusiasm tonight!" Bumblebee was cheerfully saying over the sound system. His calm facade was so convincing that everyone in the crowd, even the ones who had initially panicked, now firmly believed that there had been no danger whatsoever, that what they thought were 'Decepticons' might just have been Autobots performing in clever costumes. "And don't forget, souvenir posters, soundtracks, figurines, and clothing will be available on your way out. But for now ..."

"For now, America has spoken!" Spike interrupted, racing to take the microphone just before his co-host ran out of material. "It's time to announce the winners of _Dancing with the Autobots!_"

Relieved, Bumblebee turned to look behind him as the crowd cheered, and he saw that the competitors had lined themselves up loosely behind their hosts, awaiting the official announcement of the winners and very purposefully looking as if everything that happened had been planned all along. A moment later, the judges entered, stage left, and behind them came Hound, carrying ... the Iacon Trophy?

Shaking his cranium as if the wiring in his optics needed to be jiggled back into place, Bumblebee stared at the object Hound was carrying. It certainly looked exactly like the Iacon Trophy, but how could that be? Starscream had stolen it and flown off with the Aerialbots in hot pursuit. He'd witnessed the theft himself.

But as Bumblebee looked a little more closely, his suspicions were aroused when he noticed the trophy flicker slightly, just once. And, more tellingly, Hound's finger servos seemed to pass slightly into the trophy's base as he carried it.

The giveaway, though, was the slight glow coming from Hound's hologram projector. The trophy, Bumblebee realized, wasn't real at all. Like his little speech a moment ago, the holographic copy of the award was just another way to keep the crowd from realizing how close to danger it had actually come.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for," Spike continued, on much firmer footing than Bumblebee, because he, at least, knew the plan. "The votes are in! Shall we hear from our judges?"

"In third place," Tracks announced grandly as he moved into the spotlight and let the crowd bask in his gorgeousness for a moment, "are Inferno and Firestar, with the Quickstep! Congratulations, darlings! Now work it for us!"

Smiling broadly, Inferno took his partner by the hand and spun her forward as they both stepped up to take a bow. Most of the new scratches on Firestar's chassis were masked by the shine of the spotlights, but Inferno definitely had developed a bit of a limp that he couldn't quite disguise.

"In second place," Carly bubbled when the wild applause died down, "burning up the stage with the Milonguero-style Argentine Tango, Arcee and Springer!"

The moment the spotlights turned on them, Arcee threw herself into Springer's arms and struck an almost torrid pose, the two of them tossing sultry smiles at the audience as Arcee did her best to use her body to block the audience's view of the burn marks on Springer's chestplate where he'd shrugged off two direct hits from a Decepticon blaster.

"And finally," Kup finally announced, playing with his cy-gar to draw out the audience's suspense. A drum roll sounded over the stadium's speakers. "The dancers who managed to impress even me, as well as the voting public, and waltz their way to first place: Optimus Prime and Elita One!"

The crowd went wild. Hand in hand, Optimus and Elita stepped forward to bow several times in all directions, accepting the thunderous applause graciously. Then, Hound crossed the stage, presenting what appeared to be the Iacon Trophy. Subtly catching the winners' full attention, he nodded slightly with a strained grin on his faceplate, as if he was trying to tell them something important without actually saying a word.

Looking at Hound for a long moment, then at the trophy, then back to Hound, Optimus and Elita seemed to get the message. At least, they did not react badly when they reached out to take the award and their finger servos touched the empty air of a hologram. Hound calmly projected it passing into their hands, and Optimus mimed raising the illusory trophy over their heads for the approval of the roaring crowd as Elita hugged him gleefully.

"For one last treat," Bumblebee called over the sound system a minute later, gesturing for some semblance of quiet, "Our winners will dance an encore to wrap up this evening's performance!"

Optimus shot Bumblebee a very brief, '_you have got to be kidding me!_' expression, but the host just shrugged helplessly as the other competitors quickly exited the stage and the first few strings of Strauss began to play. The winners' encore had been part of the program from the beginning, and after everything they'd done to salvage the show in the aftermath of the Decepticon attack, there was no way that Bumblebee was going to deviate from the plan now.

And so, to the roaring approval of a sellout crowd, rating as the most-watched live television broadcast of the year, _Dancing with the Autobots, Season One_ came to a successful conclusion.

Jazz almost glitched when that 'Season One' phrase eventually sunk in.

O.O.O

_Concluded in the Epilogue... _


	10. Epilogue

_**Dancing with the Autobots**_

Epilogue: The Next Day

O.O.O

"Well," Cobra Commander sighed painfully, as if he was fighting a whopping migraine, "I have a feeling last night was a debacle in more senses of the word than even Webster knew existed. What I don't have yet is the bottom line."

"Of course, Commander," Destro nodded patiently, producing a tablet computer and poking at the screen a few times. "As you already know, telephone voting was a complete non-event."

"Yesssss. I know," Cobra Commander ground out, grabbing a pencil off his desk and snapping it in two. Unfortunately, the pencil turned out to be a Sharpie pen, and the blue ink, unnoticed, immediately soaked through his gloves and stained several piles of vital paperwork. "Internet voting. Network commercial revenue. Bottom line. NOW."

"As you wish," Destro nodded, consulting his tablet again. "Let me see now, internet voting ... plus our percentage of the paid advertising ... minus telecomm costs ... minus the money COBRA invested in the venue the Autobots didn't use ... carry the three ..." Though he already knew the bottom line - in fact, he had calculated it the night before - Destro enjoyed dragging out the bad news a little bit longer and pretended to pore over his tabulations. "Ah. Here we have it. Four hundred, fifty two thousand."

"Is that net or gross profit?" Cobra Commander asked, a flicker of shrewd interest animating his voice.

"Net loss, actually."

"NET LOSS? NET LOSS!" Cobra Commander shrieked, the innocent office supplies on his desk falling victim to his sudden explosion of rage. "The most brilliant business minds in COBRA's arsenal aren't able to give me anything better than a four hundred thousand dollar loss?"

"Four hundred, fifty two thousand dollars," Destro corrected calmly, then he looked again at his tablet with a vague, "Hm. Make that four hundred, fifty nine thousand."

"WHAT?"

"It appears the proceeds from the internet voting were funneled into a Corsican bank account, which has now been emptied to the last penny." Even Destro sounded a bit surprised by that turn of events.

"Tomax and Xamot," Cobra Commander spat in disgust, but he didn't appear to grow any angrier at this bit of news. Reaching a higher level of anger than he had already achieved simply wasn't possible. "Taking the money and running from my wrath, no doubt. Well, they will be dealt with accordingly. In the mean time, we're facing nearly a half-million dollar loss on this ridiculous venture."

_COBRA is facing a half million dollar loss, not me,_ Destro thought to himself, but knowing better than to state that fact out loud. Instead, he simply commented neutrally, "So it would seem."

For a long moment, Cobra Commander just sat in his leather office chair, his fingers steepled beneath his mirrored mask, swinging the chair slightly back and forth on its ball joint as he thought in silence. Eventually, he asked, "Those votes on the website had to be paid by credit card, did they not?"

"Visa, Mastercard, American Express, or Discover," Destro agreed. "The provider was not set up to accept Diners Club Card."

"Can you tell from the transactions whether any of those payments were debit rather than credit?"

Nonplused, Destro poked and swiped at his tablet screen a few times. "Most are traditional credit cards, Commander, but yes, I can see a few debit card transactions."

"Fine," Cobra Commander gestured decisively. "Get the Televipers to work. I want those accounts hacked and emptied by noon today. We're going to recoup our losses from this one way or another."

O.O.O

Patiently, a lone Autobot stood in the mostly-quiet communications center of the _Ark, _watching the monitor of Teletraan-1 as he waited for his call to be answered. He was rewarded just a moment later when the communications officer on the other end of the line patched him through to the individual he wanted to speak to.

"General ... Abernathy?" the mech asked politely as the face of a human male appeared onscreen.

"General Hawk, if you please," the man answered. "To whom am I speaking?"

"Red Alert, Autobot Security Chief," was the answer. "Thank you for taking my call."

"Well, it's not every day that we get a message from the Autobots," Hawk answered. "Can I inquire as to the nature of this communique?"

Red Alert gave the man an astute, knowing grin. "General, I am fully aware of the nature and reputation of the GI Joe forces. Now, let me say up front that it doesn't mean I trust you one hundred percent. I don't trust _anyone_ one hundred percent."

"Not even your famed leader, Optimus Prime?" Hawk asked, and it was difficult to tell if he was joking or serious.

"I've had my moments of suspecting even him," Red Alert admitted, "though at the time I was suffering the after-effects of taking a missile directly to my cranial housing. I've since been forgiven for my glitches."

General Hawk actually blinked at this. "You Autobots are some odd individuals, you know that?"

"From my perspective, you humans are the strange ones," the Security Chief responded evenly. "But suffice it to say, while I don't trust GI Joe one hundred percent, I think I trust you about eighty-six point three percent."

"Sounds like I should take that as a compliment, Chief," Hawk answered. "Your point being ..?"

"My point being, General, if you felt there was a security risk that required embedding your operatives into the stadium, all you had to do was tell us. We would have been glad to provide assistance."

"Oh," Hawk nodded in understanding. "You knew. Well, to be honest, I didn't think those interviews with my guys were all that random."

Red Alert grinned at the General's admission of the failed subterfuge. "I recognized a couple of your troops on the video feed of the backstage tour. Our digital memories don't fade over time like yours might, so I immediately remembered them from that incident in Los Angeles. I do not in any way appreciate the attempt at covert operations, sir. I was all for having your men rounded up and thrown out of the stadium right then. However, you might be pleased to know that several of my colleagues advocated on your behalf, citing your reputation and insisting you were there for honorable purposes, until I finally relented."

"Then thank them for me," Hawk interrupted. "We paid a lot for those tickets, like everybody else."

"And thank you for assuring me you obtained entrance to the show by legitimate means," Red Alert nodded. "But I still suspected that you weren't there just to watch the performance. I scanned the faces in the crowd for more of your operatives, and radioed their locations to our journalist, Slamdance, who I instructed to interview every one of them on live television."

"In other words, 'gotcha'," Hawk agreed. "Send the message that you were on to us without actually causing an incident. Well, congratulations, Red Alert, you got me. I reviewed the tape again this morning, and your man Slamdance interviewed almost every member of the unit."

"Thank you, General, I do my best." Then, abruptly, Red Alert's head jerked and he frowned deeply at the General's words. "Wait ... what do you mean, 'almost' every member?"

This time it was General Hawk's turn to smile. "Maybe sometime when I'm not so busy, I'll tell you about a fellow named Snake-Eyes. Check the surveillance tapes of the VIP box, I guarantee you won't find him. It's been a pleasure, Red Alert. Hawk out."

"Snake-Eyes?" Red Alert repeated as the monitor blipped into blackness. Now that the communication had been terminated, the Security Chief started to look a little glitchy as he frantically punched up his dossier on the Joes and found it surprisingly lacking. "Who in the Pit is Snake-Eyes?"

O.O.O

Starscream, whose career had been in science before the war had broken out, was supposed to be examining the bits and pieces of gold-plated metal scattered about his work bench. He hardly saw the point, though. He'd known what he'd find before he'd ever laid hands on the Iacon Trophy, and one minute of 'research' was all it had taken to prove that he'd been right. Instead, he watched his computer monitor, with a grin of smug enjoyment on his faceplate. This was the seventh time he'd watched the Youtube video of Megatron getting the scrap beaten out of him by a bunch of femmes on live television, and it was still just as amusing as when he'd seen it happen in person. Apparently the rest of the world thought so as well; the video already had been viewed over three million times, and it hadn't even been online a full day yet.

There it was again: Someone off camera, shouting, "Bite him harder, Moonracer!" Starscream's grin widened exponentially. That was Optimus Prime's distinctive voice; he would have staked his left aileron on it.

Suddenly, the doors slid open and Megatron strode into the laboratory. Starscream flinched, barely getting the video closed in time. He turned and looked as bland as possible, but groaned inwardly; Megatron wanted results, and this was the moment of truth.

"Starscream," Megatron barked without preamble. "Have you finished your analysis?"

"I have, _mighty_ Megatron," Starscream answered snidely, gesturing to the pieces of the disassembled Iacon Trophy strewn haphazardly over his workbench.

"And?" Megatron demanded.

"And," Starscream answered, snapping together the two pieces of the mirrored sphere that comprised the top portion of the trophy and holding it up for the Decepticon leader to see, "I think this would make an excellent decoration for your quarters if you decide to ask one of those feisty little she-bots on a second date."

"_WHAT?_"

"This is, unquestionably," Starscream explained patiently, "what the humans call a _disco ball_. Also sometimes called a mirror ball. A hollow sphere covered in reflective tiles, used primarily for the aesthetic effect of casting refracted light throughout a dance hall or over a darkened stage. It is widely recognized by humans as a symbol of many forms of dance. So, despite the obvious resemblance, in no way is it a node of, a key to, or even a miniaturized version of any multifaceted supercomputer known as Vector Sigma that the Autobots were foolishly trying to hide from us in plain sight."

Megatron's finger servos clenched so furiously that the joints squealed; his mandible ground until it threw sparks, and Starscream, too preoccupied with congratulating himself on his cleverness, did not notice that he was pushing his already fuming leader just a little too far.

"And so, _mighty_ Megatron," Starscream mocked contemptuously, "despite your, shall we say, _visionary_ approach, I'm afraid a disco ball just won't be able to help you increase the size of our forces by granting new Decepticons life. It is rather pretty, though, isn't it?" Smirking, he all but patted himself on the back as he continued, "If only there had been even one single mech with the intelligence to recognize the trophy for what it was, and inform you of its uselessness, then you might never have found yourself in the position of four little she-bots making a complete fool of you for half of this world's human population to see. Oh, wait, come to think of it, there _was_ a mech who -"

Megatron's optics glowed a hellish red.

Starscream didn't remember anything after that.

O.O.O

_**The End**_


End file.
